Playing for Keeps
by ArtemiScribbles
Summary: When Reggie Thorpington literally falls into the path of the Winchester brothers, things get interesting. Does she have something to do with Sam's mysterious vision? And why doesn't she like Dean? Set after Playthings. Rated for content. R&R appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Hi everyone, I'm just re-posting this with some spacing changes to make it easier to read. Hope that helps.

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Sam Wincester was tired, and he was dirty, and, he was out of place. It hurt, in a strange way, not to belong here, the kind place he had tried to make his own, had fought to become a part of. It hurt to know that he couldn't change what he was, and it hurt to know that he had left the people he loved to try, and that the abandonment had left scars, on them, on him.

Sam was in a library.

Not your typical small town library where he spent many an hour pouring over old newspapers, wills, property records, obituaries, and anything else that might help he and his brother to sort out the latest supernatural mess they had walked into. This was a LIBRARY. The Charles E. Young Research Library at UCLA to be exact. It had one of the best collections of original and facsimile medieval manuscripts in North America, and it was the only place Sam could think of where he might find a clue about the obscure symbol that had been popping up in his visions.

Well, that wasn't quite accurate, it wasn't just popping up; it was the vision itself. Just a blinding light, and emerging from its depths, a single fluid, curving figure, surrounded by an inexplicable and unrecognizable tangle of whirling, curling, snaking….threads? ropes? bodies? Sam just didn't know, and it was making him crazy. He'd never had this kind of a vision before, no people, no places, no foretold event or doom or death, just, a symbol. It had become so consuming that he saw it all the time, burning just behind his eyes, its shadow overlaying everything he saw in the real world. He blinked, but the symbol shone on.

Elsewhere, among the towering stacks in the vast library, Dean Winchester wandered. He felt differently from Sam, in fact, oddly, he felt the opposite. Though Dean had never run away to collage, or spent time in the great institutes of knowledge among the rare and precious windows on the past, he was as comfortable here as anywhere. He was surrounded by books, and Dean loved books. He had never needed to take a course, or hear a lecture. If he wanted to know something, he turned to a book.

He knew that Sam mistook his distain for technology and their internet resources as a general apathy regarding all research and research tools, but really, it was just that compared to books, the internet, while useful, was also lacking. It had no soul. Not like books. The ones around him now, they were beautiful, and they were alive. Each one contained life, the life of its author, of its subjects, of its time. No Dean always felt at home around books, and tempted, tempted to open one, anyone, and dive into the world therein and never come out.

Of course, as far as most people knew, Dean's reading material consisted of cereal boxes and other food packages, but, what they, including his brother, had forgotten(with his not inconsiderable encouragement, it was easier to surprise someone when they thought you were stupid), was that he'd spent most of his early life immersed in the ancient lore of more cultures than he could count. Was it really so weird that his tastes should have expanded to include the rich bodies of literature and history of those cultures, which were often able to provide a clue where the more traditional sources failed?

It was also from those books that he had learned to characterize his sense of duty, of honour, of determination. Of course if anyone tried to tell Dean that he was a modern day knight in shining armour, he would probably cock an eyebrow and tell you that in fact, the medieval institution of chivalry was more or less a fabrication found only in medieval literature and that medieval knights had only one thing going for them, and it was not, in most cases, a refined sense of honour or duty. It was that they were the contemporary equivalent of a tank on legs and not someone you wanted to meet on a battlefield, or anywhere else for that matter. Oh yes, he'd let you have it, just so he could have the pleasure of walking away whistling while you stood there with your mouth hanging open, and ten minutes later he'd be Jo Blow again, all smart mouth and no substance.

No, Dean knew all about ideals, about romanticism, and he knew that for the majority of people, past and present, despite their popularity, they were no more than pretty ideas. Of course, knowing that wasn't quite enough to stop him from having ideals, nor to stop him being an incurable romantic, but it was enough to bury those tendencies deep down, and mask them with a sardonic tongue and devil may care attitude. The truth was that the core of his strength stemmed for an eternal optimism bounded in a downright mule-headed, idealistic belief in his cause, and enough misguided self confidence to allow for a delusional belief in his ability to make a difference. Of course, Dean was good at hiding that part, even from himself. While Dean was off musing, Sam, was working.

Having written down a few dozen call numbers of likely looking books available to the general public (Sam didn't even want to think about what kind of scheme Dean might come up with to get them into the rare books collections should it become necessary) he moved along, stack after stack, head bent to see the fading numbers. By number forty-two he had a crick in his neck, after trip number two to the catalogue and an additional twenty found and rejected possibilities, he had a pounding headache. He straightened, rubbing the knot at the right side of his spine and looked down the isle. _That_, he thought, looking at a young woman balanced precariously on the top of a chair back to reach the top shelf of a stack, _is not a good idea_.

_This was not a good idea_ Reggie Thorpington thought to herself as she perched on the top of the chair. _Well_, she mentally muttered, _if I fall and break my neck, perhaps that will be enough to convince the university to use shelves accessible to normal people, and not the local titans out of Greek mythology or Norse gods_. Honestly, there weren't even any stepladders of footstools hanging around, and, after going through all the trouble of finding this catalogue, suffering through the embarrassment of very conspicuously dragging a chair over to the stack in the silent library and climbing up on the bloody thing… well, she wasn't about to quit now.

_You have excellent balance and it's all about momentum_, she told herself firmly. _You mustn't hesitate, if you do, you'll lose your balance. It needs to be one smooth, strong motion up, and then back down before you can get unsteady_. She placed one foot on the back of the chair. _Ready_….she prepped herself, eyeing the fat green tome that was her target, _GO_! Reggie shot up, reached the apex of her flight, found she had overestimated the distance and was head and shoulders above the top of the shelf, way above the book, hesitated, flailed, and then...she fell. Right into the arms of….oh, it seemed maybe one of those Norse god types was hanging around after all.

Reggie knew her mouth was hanging open, she could only hope she hadn't squeaked as she fell. In fact, she thought, taking stock, it hadn't been a very long drop. No, she shook her head, looking down, not nearly long enough, and that was because she still had most of the way to go! She looked up, into the smiling blue eyes of one of the tallest men she'd ever seen. Suspended above the floor, just below his chest level, her perspective was easily a foot higher than it would have been had she stood on her own feet. _No_, she thought, looking at the giant's chin, _make that two feet_!

Sam shot down the isle just as the girl stepped forcefully up onto the chair back. He reached her just as her balance gave and she toppled sideways, managing to get both arms beneath her before she fell more than a few feet. He looked down into her tawny eyes, took in the porcelain skin and perfect, full pink bow of a mouth, top it off with a nose so straight it could only be described as aristocratic and a mane of short, spiky hair the same golden bronze as her eyes ….."Nice catch" quipped Dean, eyebrows raised, from the other end of the long isle. Sam's look clearly said, _you took the words right out of my mouth_.

Dean surveyed the woman cradled in his brother's arms with frank approval. She had the kind of curves which could only be called lush. Hers was a figure which defined the term 'hourglass', and had been knocking men flat on their asses for centuries, no matter what current fashion magazines said. However, it wasn't until she turned her head toward the sound of his voice that he found himself short of breath. _Christ_ he thought to himself, _what kind of woman has the body of a playboy centerfold and the face of an angel?_

He was jarred out of his musings by the sound of her voice.

"Puns?" she queried. "Really?" Her voice was laced with mocking disbelief.

Dean shrugged, sauntering towards the pair, "Good enough for Shakespeare, good enough for me", he said cockily.

All Reggie could think of to say to that was "Hmmmm", truth being that she regretted her disparaging remark, which had been born if surprise and embarrassment and anyway, as he approached, the shear masculine appeal of him was distracting her. Up close he had green gold eyes and the kind of chiseled beauty that no matter how spectacular, was still unequivocally masculine, _and…_Reggie searched for an adjective, _rugged, _she decided, taking in the stubble, the muscle, the beaten leather jacket, and something…a hardness, a forcefulness. She drew a sharp breath, a deep, tormenting sadness. The infinite sea of his pain, showing nowhere on his face, washed over her and she flinched physically, as, once opened, her senses took in more of the same wrenching sorrow form the man who held her. She looked up into the gentle, concerned blue eyes and felt it like a dagger in her heart.

"Hey", Sam gave the girl a gentle jostle, "Anybody home". Her stare was unnerving, he felt like she could see into his soul. She jumped.

"Oh, sorry, just a little shaken", she apologized, embarrassment heating her face as Sam swung her back down to the ground. She stepped back from him, giving her shirt and pants a brisk, pointless dusting, as if she could brush away her awkwardness.

"That wasn't a very smart stunt" Dean said bluntly.

"Uh, yeah, no kidding" Reggie responded, but, she made a helpless gesture, spreading her hands out at her sides,

"They don't design these places for people like me".

Taking in her short stature, Dean estimated that she was a good eight inches shorter than his own six one. With a chuckle he reached up, 'Which one was it you were after?"

Rachel gritted her teeth at his obvious ease and taunting tone, casting a look at the other man who smiled as if to say, _sorry, take him or leave him, that's just the way he is. _

"It's the big green volume".

Dean plucked it easily form the shelf. "A Guide to Medieval Irish Heraldry" he read out, "Sounds interesting", he sounded dubious.

"Umm yeah…." Reggie mumbled feeling like a total geek, "Just a little family history stuff…." She trailed off.

Sam jumped in to save the day. "I'm Sam, by the way, Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean."

Reggie looked at him gratefully, took in the longer, slightly shaggy mane of brown hair. If Dean was beautiful, Sam was the kind of deep, quiet attractive that shocked, and then stole, your heart. _Wow_ she thought to herself, _this is some company I'm keeping_. As if on cue, a voice rang out harshly in the stillness of the library,

"Marco", it called, a pause, and then louder, "Marco".

"Oh my God!" Reggie gasped, and, waving her hands at the brothers, began to move towards the voice, "That's me!" she exclaimed.

"Your name is Marco?" Dean asked scratching his head.

"Wha….no Reggie, Regina" she said as she scurried down the isle toward the persistent voice, "It's a thing we do…." she trailed off. Reaching the end she hissed out "Polo…..polo…..polo Goddamnit…Emily!" A tall, attractive Asian girl appeared beside her.

"There you are", she said, "Please tell me you're ready to go, I get enough of this during the school year, we're on spring break in California for God's sake!"

"Will you keep it down" Reggie groaned, "This is NOT the public library. This place is practically a scholarly holy shrine, it's Mecca! It has over 300 000 extant manuscripts!" She tried in vain to make the other girl understand. Emily looked distinctly unimpressed, her eyes roved aimlessly until they lit on the Winchesters.

She perked up immediately. "New friends?" she asked, sidling towards the brothers.

"Ummmm, sort of. They were just helping me get a book…" Reggie began.

"And stopping you breaking your neck", Dean pointed out, receiving a glare for his contribution.

"What?" said Emily alarmed, "Are you okay?"

"Oh yes, fine. We really have to go". Now quite mortified Reggie practically dragged Emily off around the corner, calling a hasty "Thanks again", as she disappeared.

Dean gave a low whistle, "Bit high strung".

Sam turned on him, "Did you have to bait her!" he demanded. Dean looked at his brother speculatively,

"See something you liked there brother mine?" he teased. "Bet she was a nice armful".

Sam blushed but could hardly contradict him. Reggie had been beautiful, and intriguing.

"That book on Irish heraldry, you don't think there could be some connection with this thing I've been seeing?"

Dean rolled his eyes, "You don't have to invent an excuse to be interested in a pretty girl Sam! It's normal, it's natural, it's good!" he stressed the last word.

"I'm not making an excuse" Sam protested, "I'm serious. I….felt something when she looked at me".

Dean rolled his shoulders and looked away, because fact was, so had he.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Just finally getting around to fixing the spacing.

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_Bugger_, Dean looked at the rain outside as it poured down around the small, fifties style, tourist oriented dinner the brothers had chosen for dinner, and then to the tasteless burger on his plate. He tried to remember his last real meal, which lead to the more depressing question, had he even had one in his living memory? Not really, not since Mom had died, and God knows, his Dad had been no hand in the kitchen. He'd have fed them army rations if they'd have eaten it.

Thinking of his father made the knife of new grief twist sharply inside him, he could practically see it, lodged beside the old, twisted scar that was his mother's death and her absence. He'd have given anything to be eating burned spaghetti sauce from a jar (one of his father's specialties), or even a plateful of gritty kraft dinner made by his own awkward 8 year old hand, if they could have eaten it together.

God, he was spending too much time with Sam, all this soulful staring at the rain business was his brother's bag.

He looked across the table, Sam hadn't touched his food and was staring hard at something only he could see. "What's up Sammy?" he asked.

Sam looked up at him, "Listen, I really think that this symbol I've been seeing might have something to do with that girl Dean" he persisted before his brother could voice the objection he saw in his eyes,

"It feels right. It….I dunno, clicks".

"It clicks" Dean repeated doubtfully, "Is this a psychic thing?" Sam looked down,

"I dunno, I just, feel like she's connected".

"Hmmmm" Dean returned noncommittally. He was no psychic, but he trusted his gut, and his gut said trouble, the girl was trouble.

He was distracted by a sudden burst of noise from the street as the door to the dinner swung open, and the sound of female laughter and chatter crowded into the air. And there was a voice among them that was familiar. He saw that Sam was recognizing it too and beginning to rise, but Dean pulled him back. He could see the tall Asian girl, two others and Reggie. As luck would have it, they slid into the booth backing onto Sam and Dean's. Dean supposed Sam would say it was a sign, that they were meant to run into the girl again or somesuch.

Well, he couldn't hold back his grin, trouble was their business after all.

_What are we doing?_ Sam mouthed across the table. Dean put a finger to his lips and shook his head, indicating that they should listen. If he was walking into trouble, then he wanted a little more intel first.

"Oh yeah", Emily was saying as she shoved Reggie playfully to make room in the red vinyl booth of the cheesy dinner they had chosen,

"and Reggie spent the afternoon picking up guys instead of doing research!"

"Really!" this from Janet, one of Reggie's oldest friends, and a "No!" from Camille, whom she'd known since high school. Both voices held notes of hope rather than censure.

For Reggie to have much to do with strange men, or even those that weren't so strange, or even those who had been hand picked and deliberately thrust into opportune situations with her, was unusual. She had this way that, despite her striking looks and obvious physical appeal (which she hardly flaunted, though, as she insisted, she didn't hide it either) caused men to slot her firmly into the 'my friend Reggie' category. Reggie had reams of male 'friends', whom her calm, careful, and deliberately oblivious attitude shunted right where she wanted them. Into the category marked "harmless". As a friend she was incredibly giving, and totally committed, but ask her to share that with a man who was also her lover, forget it. Hence, this news was cause for considerable excitement.

"And they were HOT!" Emily crowed triumphantly.

Slumped down out of sight in the booth behind the girls, Sam was beginning to think this whole eavesdropping plan of Dean's wasn't so bad after all.

Reggie jumped in quickly, to head off Emily's enthusiasm and the other's excitement.

"I was not picking them up". Emily rolled her eyes.

"Tell them" she demanded. Reggie groaned.

"Tell them, tell them, tell them" Emily prodded.

"Fine" Reggie capitulated.

"Basically, I was stupid and made a fool of myself. Same old, same old". Emily whacked her impatiently on the arm and took over the telling.

"She climbed up on a chair to reach a book" (at this point there was a dual head bobble of understanding from Janet and Camille, Emily was by far the tallest of the group)

"and she fell", there was a little gasp, "and then….." Emily paused for suspense,

"This adorable guy caught her!"

"What, really?" demanded Janet, "That's so, so…."

"Syrupy storybook" suggested Camille dryly.

"Romantic", insisted Janet.

"Forget that" said Emily, "You should have seen this guy! He must have been six and a half feet tall, and the body", she closed her eyes appreciatively.

"And he had all this cute shaggy hair and these puppy dog eyes" (Dean rolled his eyes, what was it with chicks and the whole 'wounded' thing), "and he looked _smart_" she stressed this last, looking at Reggie, who shrugged.

"He was very sweet and polite, regular Prince Charming". Sam bared his teeth at Dean in an anticipatory smile, which said _if I'm sweet and polite, what does that make you_? Dean just shook his head.

"And the other one" Emily let out a low whistle, and Dean grinned arrogantly at his brother, "All I can say is, I never believed the word _hot_ could be so precisely applied".

Reggie sniffed, "He thinks he's Indiana Jones". Sam shook with silent laughter at his brother's indignant look.

"Besides" she gave Emily a nudge, laughing,

"Don't you have a fiancé? One who is currently running around with her boyfriend" she pointed at Janet,

"Finding a parking space so we don't have to walk in the rain. That's the stuff of real romance". Emily just shrugged,

"It doesn't hurt to look". Reggie rolled her eyes.

"So" began Camille, who was closer to Reggie's character in terms of her scholarly bent, "Did you find anything at the library?"

"Um, not really." Glad for the change of topic, Reggie began to describe some of what she'd found.

"I know the symbol I'm looking for is in the crest my grandmother gave me, but I can't find the crest in the catalogue. It's probably not an official familial symbol, and so it's not really that surprising that it wasn't in there" Emily sniggered, thinking about how she'd gotten the book, but Reggie pressed on ignoring her.

"I was hoping that I might find something with similar components, and that the catalogue might say something about their origin. So far, all that I can tell is that the crest is very old, and that the tree probably predates the crest and the whole heraldic tradition by quite a bit. It's definitely old Celtic something, I'll just have to keep looking". Something in Reggie's voice made that "have" sound obligatory, a note of desperation that implied she _needed_ to find out this information. Her friends sensed the change in mood, and went quiet.

Camille reached across the table to squeeze her friend's hand. "I know honey, how important this is to you…"

On the other side of the booth Dean was giving Sam an _I told you so_ look. The symbol she was describing was a tree which looked nothing like what Sam had been seeing. Sam huffed out a breath, thinking hard, trying to find the connection his instincts told him was there, while Dean tried hard to ignore the instincts that were telling him the same thing. It was a lot simpler this way. It was better if they didn't get caught up with this girl, Dean knew that she would be hard to shake loose if that happened. Just as he was congratulating himself on their narrow escape, he caught the next bit of Camille's consolation, and Reggie's response.

"I know that you somehow feel obligated to do this", she was saying,

"That it's connected to your Grandmother, and you feel like it's a way to be close to her. I get that, I was close to my Grandmother to, and when she passed, it was very hard, but, it's been nearly a decade. Why now? Why are you suddenly so hell bent on this? I know it's difficult to let go, I've lost a lot of people too".

"Oh yeah" Reggie murmured, "Any of yours burn to death?"

"I'm sorry", Reggie said, reaching out to her friend immediately after her quiet rebuke, "I know you only want to help, it's just that, I was going through some of her stuff and it just, you know, brought it all back".

Camille nodded understandingly and Reggie looked away regretting her feeble explanation all the more because it was a lie, and welcoming the distraction created by the arrival of the boys as they crowded, wet and cold, into the booth. She could hardly tell them that her Grandmother was contacting her from beyond the grave now could she.

On the other side of the red vinyl, Sam and Dean just starred at one another.

"So" Dean muttered, "New plan". Never one for waffling, he rose and headed around the booth to confront the table behind them, Sam on his heels.

Reggie's mouth dropped open and she coloured quickly, her mind running over the conversation she knew they must have overheard as she saw the brothers rise from the adjoining booth. _Oh God, oh God, oh God_, she moaned inwardly.

"Hi there" Dean said easily, flashing a blinding smile at the pretty aqua eyed brunette and the cool, brown eyed blonde, and nodding to the two boys.

"We heard y'all and thought we'd come and say hello". He focused where he knew he'd get the easiest welcome, on Emily, who responded immediately with a flirtatious,

"Did you now".

"Yes'm" Dean drawled, letting the Kansas drip heavily from his voice. "Truth is Sammy here", he jerked a thumb at his brother who swallowed an embarrassed grimace and nodded in greeting,

"Was wonderin' if he could ask Reggie a few questions about that book she took out is afternoon. Medieval stuff is kinda his hobby". Sam looked pained, nearly as pained as Reggie, but Dean just grinned at her, and never taking his eyes from hers, he leaned in to offer a hand to the brunette and the blonde,

"Indiana " he drawled, "Indiana Jones. Pleased to meet you".

"I cannot believe that you did that to me!" Sam growled at Dean as they strolled out of the dinner into the rain. Dean smiled wickedly, "Sorry Sammy boy, sometimes the old ego's gotta take one for the team".

"Yeah", muttered Sam, "But how come it's always my ego?"

"Because" Dean replied, "You make for better bait. I don't think she likes me much, there's no accounting for taste. But you, well, you've got a nice little date with your pretty girl for tomorrow afternoon. Do me a favour and try to make it more than a simple handoff. Use the book as your excuse, and then steer the conversation away from the scholarly stuff and see what you can find out about her Granny".

"You think she's like me?" Sam asked, "A psychic".

Dean shrugged. "Dunno, but there's only one way to find out".

Sam nodded. After all, hadn't he said he felt a connection. It's true, he'd never _felt_ anything from one of the other psychics before, but, maybe it had something to do with her particular powers. He pulled open the passenger door of the impala and slid inside.

"But really though Dude, 'Medieval stuff is kinda his hobby', could you have made me sound any lamer?"

"Well Sammy, with you it's not that hard, you supply a lot of your own material. I mean, what I said isn't even really a lie is it. Do you or don't you spend a lotta time rooting around digging up the past?"

"So do you!" Sam countered, "Maybe even more than me!"

"Yeah" Dean grinned again, "But I don't seem the type. You, you've got 'geeky intellectual' written all over you."

Sam slouched down. Considering the fact that six months ago he had been planning a five year stint in law school and a career as a successful lawyer, it was hard to argue with Dean's logic, no matter how much he wanted to.

"I can get my own dates", he muttered.

"All evidence to the contrary" came Dean's long-suffering reply.

Reggie giggled as she and her friends strolled down the street, her earlier concerns and the uncomfortable Winchester incident pushed from her mind by the antics of her friends and three, no, make that four, martinis. They were singing Christmas carols, badly, and couldn't for the life of them remember the words to the Twelve Days of Christmas.

The natives were eyeing them oddly, they were after all, two months late and walking down a public street lined with palm trees, but Reggie was concentrating so hard on figuring out what it was the geese did, weather it was eight maids a-milking or nine, and where did the Lords come in anyway?, that she barely noticed. That was until she caught sight of a tall, middle aged man, watching them intensely from across the street. She shivered, he felt predatory, and his eyes were, wrong. She shook her head and he was gone.

"Five golden rings" wailed Emily, wrenchingly off key. Reggie, rubbed her arms and looked up at the sky, it looked like rain again. "Hey guys".

"Threeee French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a peeear treeeee". That much they had down pat.

"Guys", she called more loudly, to be heard over the bad singing, "I think we'd better be getting back to the hotel. It's going to rain".

"Right", Emily swung about dramatically, dragging a tanked Janet with her, causing the other girl to stumble, "Home James, and don't spare the horses".

Reggie and Camille exchanged a look. Despite carrying a bit of a buzz, both girls were relatively clear eyed.

"Time to play nursemaid" said Camille, heading over to where the two other girls had, after turning their change of direction into a quick twirl, collapsed dizzy and giggling onto a bench.

"Up and Adam, time to go!" Reggie thanked God for Camille, she was so sensible, and could always be counted on. Reggie mothered everyone, and usually she took responsibility, but Camille shared it with her. Hooking Em's arm around her shoulder they set off, the strange man all but forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Again with the spacing.

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The next morning Reggie rolled out of the double bed she was sharing with Camille, and yawning, headed for the bathroom. She wanted to shower, change, and hit that little art shop she had seen the other day, before meeting Sam. Rolling her shoulders as she stepped into the shower and, turning it on full blast, she assessed how she felt about that.

When it came to her own feelings, the name of the game was analyze, analyze, analyze. It was part of her nature. What did she think of Sam. She thought he was cute, he was sweet, he was sad, he was safe. No, no, she corrected herself, that last was wrong. Sam wasn't safe, it was just that, compared to his brother, he wasn't dangerous. Oh it wasn't about who was stronger, or darker. No, there was plenty of that to go around between the two of them. It was that Sam didn't give her the same feeling of unease Dean did. It could be because when Sam looked at her, he did it with admiration, but also restraint, and that when Dean looked at her she felt naked, but it was more than that. It was specific, personal. It was that somehow Dean was dangerous _to her_, and Sam was not.

Getting out of the shower, she toweled off her hair, thought again how much she loved it short, dried off and strolled back into the bedroom in her robe. She hoped she wouldn't have to see Dean this afternoon. Walking to her suitcase, she began to sort through her clothes, and smiled as she heard the sharp, protracted thrashing that announced Camille's immanent awakening. Lazily she reached out to the rooms across the hall that housed the two couples, and felt gently for their sleeping senses, ready to snatch back her awareness lest she stumble upon some early morning exercise. Nope, there they were, all quite, all peaceful, at rest. She gave each a gentle jostle, and then Emily a sharp sensory poke. If she didn't get her moving now, she'd never be ready in time for breakfast.

Half an hour later Reggie was bouncing down the stairs chatting with Milo, Janet's ginger-haired boy friend, and Colin, Emily's fiancée. The three girls shuffled after them. Reggie shook her head, they were none of them morning people.

It took a bazooka to blast Emily out of bed and she was always cranky; Janet was simply not functioning yet and wouldn't until she'd had at least two cups of coffee; and Camille, normally the soul of gentleness, well, she had learned early in their relationship that it was best to just let her be for the first little while, at least, it was if you wanted to keep breathing.

It wasn't that Reggie was a card carrying member of the dawn brigade or anything. She didn't really like getting up much more than any of her friends, but, once up, she shook it off, they wallowed. Breakfast was a brief affair, and then the group split up, agreeing to rendezvous for dinner and drinks latter that evening. Reggie headed for the art shop, the heraldry book tucked under her arm.

Sam rolled out of bed in the cheep motel on the outskirts of town. Dean liked to pick places with a theme, the garish interiors amused him. Sam hated them, and this place was all seventies neon and plaid. Ugh. In the other bed Dean slept on, oblivious. Sam hated the way his brother could do that. No nightmares, no unease, just deep, and restful. Of course, he knew perfectly well that even in the deepest sleep his brother's every sense was peeled to the height of awareness, filtering though stimuli in his sleep as easily as when awake.

As long as things were normal, the expected grumblings and snores, he was dead to world, one hint of something out of place and he hit the ground like he'd been trained, wide awake, knife in hand. Best of both worlds. Sam supposed that it had something to do with their differing attitudes during their training years. Dean wanted to be like that, worked for it, always on the alert. Sam, on the other hand, didn't. He didn't want to _have_ to be. And now, he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to acquire quite the same sharpness. When Dean slept, he slept deep and well because it was necessary, to provide the body and mind that were his main weapons with fuel. And when he was awake he could go for hours, well past the point of exhaustion. Sam had seen him do it.

Shaking his head, he thought about Reggie. How in God's name was he supposed to get her to talk about her Grandma. It's not like he could just walk up and say 'Hey, my Mom died in a demonic fire when I was six months old and I have visions of the future, maybe we have something in common?'

"Whatcha thinking Sammy?" Dean was awake and watching him.

"I dunno. How to go about this whole interrogation thing with out scaring Reggie off or making her think that I'm some psycho".

Dean sat up with a sigh, "I don't think it's gonna be that hard. You start with the book, that's connected to her family, to her Grandma…."

"Yeah", said Sam, "but she doesn't exactly follow the pattern does she. I mean, it was her Grandma who died, not her Mom, and if it only happened a decade ago, she would have been a lot older than me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe in her case, it's just a coincidence".

Dean scratched the stubble on his chin and thought about what to say next. Here was Sam, offering him a way out of a situation he hadn't wanted to land in in the first place, but now, his own instinctual feelings were overriding his previous objections.

"Yeah, But the pattern isn't consistent is it. Look, if it's coincidence, then it's coincidence, but in my experience, there's no such thing".

"Yeah" agreed Sam.

"Better make yourself presentable then" his brother rolled out of bed and took the keys to the impala out of his jacket pocket. He tossed them to Sam, whose mouth dropped open.

"What?" said Dean, "Don't want you to look like a total loser after all, and how else you gonna get there? I don't think your girlfriend likes me very much, you'll probably have more luck if I keep out of sight. Besides, you'll need somewhere to have you're little discussion and whatever" he wiggled his eyebrows, "My baby's never let me down yet".

At exactly two o'clock Reggie was waiting by the dinner from last night, when Sam pulled up in the impala. She raised her eyebrows,

"Nice car."

"Yeah", Sam smiled, "It's my brother's". Reggie smiled back.

"I know".

"You do?" Sam asked, a bit disgruntled.

_Damn_ Reggie thought, shouldn't have let it slip, but she could feel Dean's presence in the car as surely as if he were there with them.

"Ummm, yeah", she said awkwardly, sliding into the passenger seat, unable to help running an admiring hand over the leather upholstery,

"You know, it just, doesn't exactly seem your style". Sam thought about being offended, but decided against it. She was right, the impala was Dean's and it has his name written all over it.

So instead, he smiled at Reggie, admiring the slender curve of her neck and soft smooth skin showed off by her fawn coloured tank top, which she'd covered with a bronze coloured hoddie. The shades complimented the uncanny mix of gold and brown in her eyes.

"So", he said, "where to?"

"Oh" Reggie was taken aback. "I don't know, I'm not familiar with the area…" Sam laughed,

"S'okay, I am". And with that, he pushed the car into gear and headed for one of his favorite places.

Before she knew it, Reggie found herself back on the grounds of UCLA.

"We're not going back to the library are we?" she asked, not particularly keen on returning to the site of her previous humiliation.

Well, that was how she thought of it. Sam was more inclined towards Janet's point of view. It had been a somewhat romantic, if clichéd, meeting, and he thought she'd been adorable. Sparring with his brother, and then getting all flustered. She had also demonstrated that she knew a lot about the library, which might come in helpful with his search for the strange symbol, regardless of weather or not she had some connection with the yellow eyed demon. After what had happened to Ava, he was hoping not.

"No" he smiled. "We're going here", and pulled the impala into a small parking lot next to a pink brick building, that was in fact a number of large, rectangular structures placed in careful opposition to each other to make and interesting, maze-like creation with several wings. The white brick detailing along the edges of the pink, and the large arching doorways and windows suggested Mediterranean and Eastern influences. Reggie liked it on sight.

"This is the Fowler Museum", Sam explained. "It's got some really cool collections. It specializes in the material culture of Asia, Africa, the Pacific and the Americas". Reggie's eyes lit up,

"I've heard of this place" she crowed excitedly, "It's got a really great collection tracing the history of textiles", and, overcome with enthusiasm, she dragged him eagerly up the steps. Sam smiled smugly to himself. He couldn't wait to tell Dean that, after all his wise-cracking about Sam's "geek factor", it had _actually_ turned out to be the perfect way to reach Reggie. The two quickly picked up passes at the front desk and headed off to the textiles collection.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: There. All fixed.

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The colours were fabulous, the materials were exceptional, God, what human hands could do. Reggie shook her head as she and Sam moved among the many garments, silks from China, the loud colours and rough weaves of Northern Africa, the simple grass-skirts of the Pacific Rim, and, Reggie sighed, tapestries from Medieval Britain. Sam watched Reggie's face as she moved around the room, it was a study in delight. He shook his head. He had liked to learn, had enjoyed school, could appreciate art, but this, this was a simple, innocent joy in the beauty that men could make.

"Wow" he murmured, "This stuff really gets to you huh?"

Reggie looked up at him, her eyes shining.

"Oh yes", she breathed. "This is what I do. I'm an interdisciplinary historian. I use archeological artifacts, literature, and historical documents to generate a 3-D picture of the human past. All that single discipline stuff is too one dimensional, they're only pieces of the whole, you need them all to see the complete picture."

"Oh yeah?" said Sam. She nodded emphatically.

"Take this for example", she pointed at a fading tapestry. It was a hunting scene, common fodder for such objects of display. The people in it were nameless and would remain so, they had dogs and hawks and rode on horses in a stylized forest.

"Okay" said Sam, "Show me".

Reggie grinned excitedly.

"Okay, first, you start with the archeology, the material artifact. This is late 13th century, English, and it tells us that people in this century like to hunt, that it is appropriate subject matter for decoration and contemplation. But it's so much more than that. We can look at the quality, the type of weave; think about what kind of loom this was made on, what materials were used, the dyes, the industry that produced them. That's economic history. We can look at the social interactions between the people in the work and compare them to courtly literature. This definitely has a courtly atmosphere, the rosebush in the centre is probably a reference to the Roman de la Rose, and therefore these people are more likely to be metaphorically hunting love, rather than deer. The heart, rather than the hart. Then we get into the whole debate about the ramifications of courtly literature and the fin amours movement. How it changed men, made them more refined. Did it help or hinder the position of women in society? What does it say about relationships given that the idealized lady is usually not the wife of the knight, but the wife of his superior and therefore their relations are necessarily adulterous?" She shook her head, "I could go on about that all day, it's a huge debate among medievalists and literary critics. But there are other things to. To answer some of the questions about love and relationships that the tapestry has asked, we would look into historical sources: letters between husbands and wives, court cases, books of confession, marriage laws, laws concerning widow's and orphans, other artifacts. The list goes on. Then, on top of all of that there are the simple human elements, social history."

She reverently touched the glass that protected the tapestry.

"When I look at this I see hands, the human hands that made this, that created this, centuries ago. I think about the craftsman, about the trade, his guild, his talent, the children this labour fed, and those it sheltered, blocking the bitter cold of stone walls. What would he think if he knew we were still looking at it today?" Reggie caught her breath,

"It's all that is different and the same about humanity. How these people were like us, how they weren't, and what we can learn form them. The past gives me hope for the future."

Reggie cut herself off sharply, oh great, she thought, off on another rambling tangent. She was afraid to look at Sam's face, fearing to see the patient boredom that so often graced the faces of her friends. But his eyes were bright, and his smile sincere.

"That's awesome", he said quietly. "Now I can go home and tell Dean exactly why we should care about what a bunch of dead guys did a hundred years ago".

Reggie blushed. "I tend to get a bit carried away…" she began, but Sam was shaking his head,

"Don't apologize. It's nice to meet someone else who enjoys academia." Reggie blushed harder,

"Thanks", she mumbled.

"No problem", said Sam, who was tempted to encourage her to continue. He would bet that it wouldn't take much to send her off again, and then he could have the pleasure of looking at her and listening to her, and never have to bring up the uncomfortable subject which was his ultimate goal. _Sorry Sammy boy_, he could practically hear Dean's voice in his head, _business before pleasure_. Sam sighed. Yeah, business, but how to talk around to it.

Well, he looked around for Reggie and found her standing next to yet another display case, nose pressed longingly to the glass, he supposed the first thing he should do was remove the distractions.

"Hey", he walked over to her. "You wanna go sit somewhere and….chat", Reggie looked up, way up, into Sam's appealing face. Yeah, she thought, maybe it would be better if they sat down. She smiled.

"I guess we're gonna have to, if I want to avoid getting a major crick in my neck. Sam smiled back,

"Well, the truth is, I don't usually spend that much time with the collections when I come here."

"Oh no."

"No", he shook his head. "There's this little courtyard, I'll show you".

Taking her by the hand he lead the way, wending and winding through the various wings, and up several flights of stairs until they reached the top floor of the southernmost rectangle.

Reggie followed, trying to resist the urge to remove her hand from Sam's. She had this thing about physical contact and personal space. It was all emotional, and tied up in her rather nasty relationship with her father, and, feeling rebellious, she left her hand where it was. There was nothing wrong with holding Sam's hand, except that there was. Feeling guilty, she slipped free of his grasp. It just made her squirm. It was, well, intimate. The only people Reggie touched were those really close to her, and she wasn't really the cuddly type. Cuddly felt false, her father would cuddle her after he did something cruel, or petty, and say he was sorry. Reggie still remembered the day when that no longer took the hurt away. The hole was still there, big and black inside her.

She snapped out of her dark revere when Sam finally stopped. She nearly ran into him, and scolded herself sharply for letting her dark feelings get the better of her again. _It can only hurt you if you let it. It's about choices, if you chose to let this make you feel uncomfortable around Sam, if you let it taint this, he wins, it's him and not you. This is YOUR life, be who you want to. If you don't want to touch him, than don't, but do it for the right reasons. _Despite all her stern self lecturing, Reggie still wasn't able to make herself take Sam's hand again. _Damn it_! She cursed silently.

She was still hyper aware of touching, even after all these years, anyone, even her close friends, even her own mother, the Rock of Gibraltar that had saved Reggie's life in the dark storm that had been her childhood years and her father's cruel manipulations. She sighed, it just took time, soon she would do it, force herself to because she couldn't let him win. Once Sam was safe in the harmless category, she would be able to do it. Because trusting him enough to help him wasn't the same as trusting him not to hurt her. It wasn't that she didn't like it, it was just that it was always such a big deal, it signified such a huge thing for her, even a simple touch.

_Nevermind_, she shook her head to knock out the darkness. J_ust be normal for ten minutes, surely you can do that_. And she did.

She sat by Sam on the little bench in the beautiful Mediterranean-style courtyard on the top floor of the museum with its potted cypress trees and huge skylight. It was pleasant and warm, and she refused to flinch or move when Sam sat down beside her. Not even when his knee came to rest lightly against her leg as he turned to face her.

"So" he began, "Did you happen to bring that book?"

"Huh, oh right, the book", Reggie had forgotten all about it, and she pulled it from her oversized red leather bag.

"Here you go. You're brother was saying you liked Medieval stuff right. Are you particularly into heraldry?".

"Ummm, yeah" Sam lied. "I was wondering if maybe you could help me with something. I guess after that display downstairs I came to the right place huh" he said and he dug in his pocket for something to draw on.

"Do you have a pen and paper?" he asked, eyeing her giant bag.

"Oh, sure" Reggie answered, and as she dug for the requested items, Sam asked casually,

"So you were trying to look up something about your family?"

"Oh, yeah" Reggie answered.

"My Grandma left me this necklace when she passed away and I'm trying to find out something about the symbol on it. It's supposed to be the family crest. One of our ancestors made it. Gran used to say it was more than a thousand years old. It was the first piece of history I ever held in my hands. Changed my whole life" she straightened, proffering a pen made of turquoise plastic in the shape of a feather quill and a small writing pad.

"Before that, I was all about dinosaurs".

"Really", Sam laughed, trying to imagine a tiny Reggie being into T-Rexes. "I bet you liked the herbivores." She scowled at him.

"So what if I did. They were the largest, and the most interesting. They lived in family groups, protected the herd…. although," she cocked her head to one side remembering,

"I think that they've found some recent evidence to suggest that tyrannosaurs actually lived in small family groups too. That they raised their young."

"Oh yeah" said Sam, intrigued.

"Mhmm, something discovered during the analysis of the oldest tyrannosaur bones. They found they could tell their age by counting growth rings, like on trees, and from that they calculated their rate of growth, and, basically, if the parents hadn't been looking after them, the baby t-rexes would have never been large enough to survive on their own. They grew quite slowly."

"Wow" said Sam, "You sure do have some diverse interests. Not ten minutes ago you were dissecting medieval textiles".

Reggie looked down, embarrassed again. You'd _better shape up girl, and watch that mouth, before you scare him off with all this boring intellectual chatter_.

"Well", Reggie felt the need to defend herself, "Paleontology isn't sooo different from paleography". "Sam raised his eyebrows,

"What's paleography?" he began, and cut himself off, "No wait, don't tell me. We'll be here all afternoon". Sam winced, that hadn't come out right, and Reggie was looking away from him. Damn, put his foot in it. That had been a faux pas worthy of Dean.

"Not that I would mind that" he stammered out quickly, trying to right the situation,

"It's just that I was really hoping you might know what this is", he held out the piece of paper on which he had sketched the strange symbol of his vision. Start small, he told himself, this is business, of a sort. Reggie looked at the paper.

"It's an n". She said immediately.

"Sorry" said Sam looking confused. Reggie smiled,

"An n, you know, the letter."

"Oh", said Sam, looking down at the paper. Somehow he hadn't been expecting that, or the quickness of her response. He looked down at the symbol. It was a sort of tall hump with two diagonal slashes through it.

"Are you sure? If anything it looks like an A". Reggie nodded,

"I know, but really, it's an N. And a really weird coincidence." Sam's stomach sank at that word, Dean's earlier comment ringing in his head.

"Really", he forced the words out, "How so?"

She laughed,

"A bit of a double coincidence really, and oh, the irony. For one thing, the reason that I know that this is an n, is because I study _paleography_", she stressed the undefined word form a minute ago.

"Which is", she smiled ironically, "the study of manuscripts, and specifically their written and illuminated contents.

"This" she tapped the paper, "Is a fourteenth century, capital N, British usage. That's coincidence number one. This" she reached towards her neck and pulled at the leather strap that hung around it, fishing from between her breasts (Sam tried hard not to stare), a small gold disc.

She held it in her palm and extended it towards him,

"Is coincidence number two" she finished.

But Sam didn't hear her. Sitting in the centre of her palm, the disc shone softly, and carved into its surface was the image of a tree, with strange whirling, spiraling branches, each leaf carved in delicate relief, and, nestled among them, was the symbol from his vision.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, so, this is the first fic I've ever posted and I don't really know what I'm doing. I'm thinking I should add some kind of disclaimer, you know, I don't own Sam, Dean, Supernatural etc. But I don't know how to do that in the formatting (technology defeats me), so I'm sticking it in here. I also want to say thanks so much to the people who have added me to their alert lists. I'm changing the spacing with the dialogue to make it easier to read. Let me know what you guys think.

Oh and P.S. I've even been fact checking. The Fowler Museum really exists, if anyone is interested.

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Dean muttered to himself as he trudged along in the California heat. Yeah, sure, technically it was winter, and the weather wasn't really that hot, but winter in California was a hell of a lot hotter than it was in the Northern states where he and Sam had been spending most of their time. _Just had to go and give Sammy the car didn't you_, he berated himself. It just went to show that no good deed went unpunished. Oh well, Sammy was off romancing the girl, and hopefully finding out what they needed to know. Dean frowned, thinking of Reggie. It bugged him that she seemed to take such exception to him. Normally girls like her, the ones who oozed intelligence and had innocent faces, went for the gentlemanly Sam, and normally, that didn't bother him. Girls like Reggie were pretty damn rare, which meant that most of the female population was left for him. But she was sort of haunting. To pretty by half for one. Christ, she made him think of things like virgin goddesses and pre-Raphaelite paintings. He shook his head. This was so not him. He sure as hell hoped Sam came up empty, or he had a feeling that his life was going to get a whole lot less comfortable in a short space of time. That is, if you could call running around the country chasing the monsters out of people's nightmares and carrying the guilt and worry of your psychic kid brother's dark destiny and an even darker promise, one you'd now made twice, comfortable. But for Dean, in a weird way it was normal. If they got tied up with this girl, well, somehow Dean just knew it wasn't gonna be a quick fix, and she made him edgy, and since the feeling was obviously mutual, the quicker they parted ways the better. Rambling down the street he almost bowled over the petite brunette stepping out of a café and onto the street. "Sorry" he said, grabbing her quickly to steady her. She looked up at him with cool aqua eyes, and he smiled, it was Reggie's friend from last night.

"No problem" she assured him.

"You could watch where you're going", the slightly sharper voice came from behind the brunette. It was the blonde.

"I'll be more careful, promise" said Dean at his most charming. "I'm Dean, and you're Camille", he looked at the brunette, "and Janet. I never forget a pretty girl." The blonde snorted. Somehow, he almost made that tired line sound sincere.

"I'll bet that drawl gets you out of all manner of trouble….And into some" she added after a brief pause. Dean grinned wider in silent response. She shook her head. Looked like this one was cut from much the same cloth as Reggie.

Dean was right. Reggie and Camille were alike in a lot of ways. However, it wasn't that Camille had the same dark secrets that Reggie did, though there were a few skeletons clattering about in her closet. No, it was that people like Dean Winchester, well, they made her itch. They were to smooth, to self assured, and to bloody arrogant. However, she was surprised Reggie had taken such exception to him. Usually Reggie's own dark past made her more tolerant than most of people's little foibles. That and her uncanny ability to see straight into the heart of a person. Camille remembered when they met. Reggie had been more timid then, navigating the dangerous social waters of their high school with ultimate care. Picking out the "safe" as in, "wounded so they need me and I don't have to rely on my worthiness as a person to attract them, or manipulative so they'll use me and never realize I'm using them " people, to be her friends. Then, once you were selected, she got to the bottom of you. Just like that. She knew every in, every out, every quirk, every strength and every weakness. And back then she had used that to ingratiate herself. To change her self until she was acceptable to that particular person, just what they needed. And then, she inevitably got hooked. She would start out calculating, that was self preservation, but she would end up caring, no matter what. Even those who didn't deserve it, once she was in, that was it.

But things had been different between them from the start. Reggie had this deep, deep honesty to her. It wasn't that she didn't tell lies, really, she walked the world cloaked in them every day of her life. You couldn't see the scars on her, the very fact that she seemed fine, that was a lie. But the honesty was in her fidelity, and caring. As she grew older, she got better at choosing her friends, though still hampered by colossally low self esteem (Camille hated Reggie's father with the kind of venom most people went their whole lives without feeling, and she only knew some of the story), and she used her intuition to help them. She no longer played the chameleon, and had rediscovered herself, well to some extent. She'd still never been able to trust a man. As far as Camille knew, Reggie had never even had a boyfriend, and she was twenty-two. Anyway, the point was, Reggie was always too easy on people, and usually she looked at men like Dean Winchester, and was, not scared, but rather, evasive. He was forceful, in your face, and in your space, even when he was across the room, and that would violate Reggie's personal boundaries in an intolerable way. But she was also usually more lenient, sensing in him things that others wouldn't see. What went on beneath his bravado. Reggie was a great believer in the underlying emotional causes of various behaviours. And her compassion almost always compelled her to tolerate what was intolerable to others, and to soothe, even those she didn't know.

If she did know you, if she loved you, she'd move heaven and earth to heal whatever wounds you might have. It was almost as though she actually shared them, so intimately did she know your pain. And, she also knew how to take it away. She'd done it for Camille; for Janet through an endless string of pointless and painful relationships, and then handed her over without so much as a whimper to Milo, simply telling Camille, "He's the one". She'd saved Emily from her own emotional hell, and devoted months to keeping her fledging relationship with Colin afloat, and safe from Em's endless attempts at self-sabotage, because somehow Reggie had known that Colin was the missing piece of Emily's soul, and she'd fought until he clicked neatly into place. Now they were ecstatically planning a wedding. Camille would protect Reggie with her life, knowing that Reggie was willing to go far further for any of them, she'd sacrifice her soul. Hence, if Reggie didn't like Dean, Camille didn't like him. Trouble was, as cocky and abrasive as he could be, he was kind of hard not to like. As he laughed and joked with Milo, Colin, Janet and Emily, he smiled over their heads at her, silently acknowledging, and challenging her disapproval. His smile communicated a singsong _c'mon, you know you liiiiike me. _Camille tried not to smile back and wondered what his deal was. And then, suddenly, he changed.

Slightly removed from the group, Camille had a vantage point that allowed her to observe him easily. He went still, and it was like charming, sly, likable Dean slid off like a mask, and for a second, there was something else where he had been. And that something had death in its eyes. Camille gave a little shudder, this Dean radiated deadliness, it practically shimmered in the air around him. And then it was gone. And the cheeky, cocky Dean was back, so quickly, that the others merely paused briefly and then continued on with their conversation. But Dean cut them off jokingly. "Sorry to run off, but if I don't have diner on the table when the little lady gets home, they'll be hell to pay.", and so saying, bolted. Oh yeah, thought Camille, the guy had major issues.

Dean laughed and joked with Reggie's friends. The two couples seemed like real nice people. They had that bond, the kind you could almost see, and it made Dean just a tiny bit wistful. He watched Milo wrap an arm easily around Janet, saw how she just fit under his arm, you could practically hear the click. He couldn't help but smile at the sardonic banter, the unapologetic, routine bickering between Emily and Colin that practically screamed _we've been together forever and this is how we like it. If you've got a problem, bugger off_. He refused to think about the fact that he'd given this up, even the chance of it, because he'd chosen this life. No that wasn't really true. This was who he was, he couldn't be anyone else, he couldn't have chosen anything different. He refused to regret it. He looked up. The blonde was doing her damndest to support her absent friend. Refusing to join the conversation, she stood slightly back from the group in silent protest, and she watched him. Oh yeah, he though, she's a lot like Reggie, oozing intelligence. He could practically see her brain ticking away, trying to take him apart. He smiled at her, cockily acknowledging her disapproval, daring her to like him just a little. And then, over her shoulder, he saw the face of the devil.

The yellow eyed demon walked calmly down the street, never so much as glancing at Dean. Every nerve in his body shrieked at him to do something. In his mind's eye he saw his father's burning funeral pyre, saw the charred and empty windows of their home in Kansas echoing with his mother's screams, heard Sam screaming for Jess, caught in the grip of a nightmare. He wanted desperately to kill it. For a split second he willed that with every cell and fiber of his being. He wanted to slaughter it, rip it to shreds with his bare hands, and he was helpless, and it was agony. And then, it was gone. The demon was gone, and suddenly Dean couldn't be sure, he hadn't actually seen its eyes, but he knew, he knew it was the bastard that had tormented and shattered his family. He snapped back to five pairs of curious eyes watching him. Sliding back into normal took a monumental act of self control, though it never reached his eyes. He made some lame excuse and took off to find Sam.

Back at the Fowler, Sam was still staring down at the necklace Reggie had shown him, his mind and heart racing. Okay, so she was connected to the vision. That didn't mean she was connected to the demon. That she was in danger. But it did. Something inside Sam was insisting that Reggie wasn't safe. He _had _to find out about her Grandmother. If she fit the pattern in any way…well, he didn't want to think about what that might mean. He only knew that he couldn't let someone else get hurt. He'd sent Ava home alone and she'd vanished, turned or trapped by the demon. It was not going to happen again. He applied his agile brain to the recent facts presented to him.

"So, what does the N stand for?" Sam's abrupt return from his deep musings startled Reggie. She'd been trying hard not to tune into his feelings, respect his emotional privacy, but he'd been loudly broadcasting something that felt like panic laced with regret. Now everything was normal? This was getting weirder by the minute.

"Umm, it stands for O'Neill, Gran's maiden name". "And it's more than a thousand years old?" he was trying desperately to keep the conversation focused on her Grandma. "Yup. The n was obviously added later, being as it's fourteenth century, but the tree pendant has been in the family as long as anyone can remember. Gran believed that it went all the way back to Niall, the family progenitor, he was a fourth century king of Ireland. And then it came down through the Cinel Eoghian, the Earls of Tir Eoghain, which is now County Tyrone in Ireland." She paused, Sam's emotions were still flickering wildly. She could tell he wanted her to keep talking, needed her to say something, something specific, but this wasn't it. So, when he asked her what had happened to her Grandmother, she responded to his surging desperation, and answered the difficult question.

"She died in a house fire when I was twelve."

"In a house fire?" Sam's voice was hoarse and strained. "That's another coincidence, my Mom died in a house fire when I was just a baby." Reggie looked at him, felt his pain, "How'd it happen?" Reggie shrugged.

"They said it was a freak electrical accident stemming from bad wiring." But Reggie knew it wasn't. Her Gran had had a powerful gift of second sight, there was no way such a random tragedy could have befallen her. And now, Gran had returned. Her spirit came to Reggie in her dreams, spouting nonsense words and trying desperately to communicate something. _Find the tree, find the key._ The words whispered in her mind as she sat with Sam. Hence, her quest to discover more about the amulet.

"Look" Sam fixed his eyes on Reggie's golden ones, "I know this is gonna sound weird" she nodded, encouraging him, so Sam plowed on, "Did you start having weird headaches about a year ago?" Reggie was looking at him with concern.

"Umm, no" she answered.

"No" Sam practically yelled.

"That's right" Reggie said, taken aback by his outburst, "No". Sam didn't know what to say. She wasn't connected after all, she wasn't a psychic, she wasn't in danger from the demon. But then why was she a part of his vision? The look she was giving him said he'd blundered, that he was weirding her out.

"Sorry" he apologized. Reggie had felt his surging wave of relief. Her gift seemed to be particularly attuned to him. Either that or he broadcast his emotions rather more loudly than your average person. She wasn't quite sure. This whole episode had been kind of strange, and more than a little unnerving. "Look" she said, "I'm supposed to be meeting my friends for dinner….". "Right, Right. Sorry" said Sam, "I'll drop you off".

Goddamnit! Dean swore as he jogged back towards the motel. Where the hell was Sam and why was his cell phone off! "Sam, this is Dean. Call me _as soon as you get this_!"

Sam glanced surreptitiously at Reggie out of the corner of his eye. They sat in the impala just outside the little roadhouse bar on the outskirts near where he and Dean were staying. In an attempt to restore their interaction to some plane of normalcy, she had asked Sam if he had any suggestions about where she and her friends could go for dinner and some fun. Laughingly telling him, one ear pressed to her cell phone, that Emily wanted some "local colour". The little bar was a bit on the rough side, but it was near enough that he and Dean could get to her if she needed them. He still felt uneasy.

"Well", she snapped her phone shut for the second time and spotted Milo's SUV in the parking lot. "Looks like they beat us here, so I guess I'd better get going." "Ummm, yeah…look" Sam was squirming. He wanted to tell her that if anything weird happened, that she should call him, or Dean, but only managed to suggest, awkwardly, that she might want his phone number. He knew she was just humouring him when he watched as she obediently punched it into her phone. But, while it made him feel like an ass, it also made him feel better. Reggie stared at the soft glow of her cell phone and tried to sort through the tangle of emotions pouring out of Sam. He'd been caught in a vicious inner turmoil since they'd left the museum, and she felt badly, she wanted to help, but she just didn't have enough to work with. It seemed that he'd managed to ask all the questions and give damn few answers. Oh well. It was time to go. For tonight, she'd just have to accept that he wasn't going to confide in her. "Bye Sam, I had a good time", he looked pained. "Really", she insisted, climbing out of the car. "I'll see you later".


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Thanks again to everyone who has expressed and interest in this story. I'm glad you are all liking it. Since a lot of people have been asking, I just thought I'd say that I'm not sure yet if this is going to be Sam/Reggie or Dean/Reggie. Basically, Reggie' coming to life on the page, and she hasn't made up her mind yet. I've had some comments about the spacing of the story. Do you think double spacing would be overkill?

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Sam rubbed a hand over his tired face. He'd blown it. Well, not completely. He had managed to find out something about the symbol in his vision, and that Reggie was not one of the psychic children, despite the odd similarities between her Grandmother's death and the fire that had killed his mother.

Sometimes accidents _do_ happen, he reminded himself, pushing the impala back into gear and heading for the motel. _There's probably nothing to worry about_. _You can't go borrowing trouble_ he told himself. _You've got enough as it is already_. He pulled into the motel lot and headed for room nine. Dean beat him to the door. His brother's face was like a thundercloud, caught between fear and anger.

"Where the HELL have you been! And why haven't you been answering your phone! I've called a million times".

Taken aback, Sam spread his palms in front of his chest.

"Sorry man. I took Reggie to the museum. Turned my phone off well we were inside and must have forgot to turn it back on. Turns out she knows what the symbol from my vision is, and has a necklace from her Grandma with the same character on it, but she's not connected to the demon. She's not one of the psychics."

Dean stepped back, "I wouldn't be too sure about that." He locked eyes with Sam, "Yellow-eyes is in town".

"WHAT?" cried Sam.

Dean nodded. "I saw him this afternoon while I was talking to some of Reggie's friends".

"Jesus, Jesus!" muttered Sam, running his hands agitatedly through his hair.

"But she doesn't have the headaches, and even though her Grandma died in a fire, she was twelve when it happened."

Dean shrugged. "Pattern's not that precise. And we don't know that yellow-eyes is here for her but…."

"We'd better keep an eye on her just incase."

"Right" said Dean. "I think I'd better go. Sounds like this afternoon got a bit uncomfortable, and it won't seem as weird. She's gonna wonder what's up if you show up right after dropping her off. Do you know where she is?"

"Yeah" said Sam. "They're all at the roadhouse just down the way."

Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam shrugged,

"I thought if would be better if she were nearby. Just incase."

Dean smiled, "Good instincts Sammy. Get some rest. I'll come back once they're safe at their hotel". Sam nodded.

"And Sammy" he turned, "Make sure you salt the windows and door. I already put some protective symbols up. Remember, she's not the only one the demon could be after. Be careful."

Sam swallowed and nodded his head. "You too".

Dean walked off into the night.

Dean walked though the door of the shady little Las Vegas dive and did a quick sweep of the room. It was a mixed crowd. Drunken locals and hustlers, and the tourists who were their prey. A few drifter types, and a few dangerous types. Dean took careful note of the tall quiet man in the corner wearing a cowboy hat and the small Mexican sitting at the bar. Both men were carrying concealed weapons and the bouncer at the door, while an absolute whale of a man, was not armed. Dean smiled, but he was. He could handle any trouble from this crowd he decided.

He located Reggie and her friends easily. They were sitting in a large corner booth and attracting plenty of attention, though the presence of Milo and Colin seemed to be enough to keep the wolves at bay. They were drinking and chatting, and for no reason at all, right in the middle of their conversation, Reggie looked up, directly into his eyes.

Even from across the room he could sense her tense. He tried not to scowl. What the hell had he ever done to her. She looked like a doe about to take flight from the hunter. Her full lips were parted just a bit and her golden eyes were wide. _Relax honey_ he told her silently, _I'm not here to bother you. _And with that he gave her a little nod and, after picking up a beer from the bar, headed for his own dark corner where he would have a good view of the whole place.

"And then" Emily was saying, "Colin tripped and he and Milo both fell over the side of the side of the boat!"

Colin was scowling, he was not so good at not being good at things, but the others were laughing. Apparently they had decided to go Scuba diving on a whim, and Colin had had some issues with his diving fins. The kind where he and Milo had exited the guide boat rather earlier than planned.

"We had to circle back to get them" Emily was continuing, when Reggie felt it; the mix of arrogance, strength, determination, buried pain and damnit!, vulnerability, that registered clearly on her senses as Dean Winchester. She looked up, right into his eyes. He was standing just inside the door, looking back at her.

She hesitated, he always made her so uncomfortable. She was loathe to beckon him over, but felt it would be too rude not to. _Besides_, she told herself. _You're not being fair. He's never done anything to you. All this is in your head_. _Whatever his short comings may be, that caustic attitude is just his way of dealing with a lot of pain._ And uncertainty. Despite all his bravado, she knew Dean Winchester was desperately afraid of somehow not being good enough, strong enough, of failing. She made up her mind, but before she could lift her hand in greeting, he gave her a curt little nod, grabbed a beer from the bar, and disappeared into a smoky corner. Her face fell as she settled back into her seat. Her rejection had hurt him, she'd felt it. She should have been relieved that he wasn't pressing himself on her, but she wasn't. She was sorry.

Dean sat in the corner nursing a singe beer and watched. He watched her chuckle and smile when Camille whispered something in her ear. Saw her eyes light with mischief when she teased Colin, saw her smooth out a budding argument between Janet and Milo before it ever got going. She was their centre. It was as clear as day. They were all there together because, like moths, they were drawn to the flame of her. And so was every man in the room. The other girls, particularly the exotic Emily and aqua eyed Janet, got their fair share of attention too. Camille's quiet aloofness kept the men away, but Reggie's firmly oblivious attitude was not quite so effective. They may not have approached, but they sure as hell looked.

He little tank top was relatively modest, showing a minimum of what was undoubtedly an impressive cleavage, but, when she leaned over to grab her purse from the floor, every man in the place, from sixteen to sixty, cocked his head and followed her down. Dean enjoyed the show and realized that Reggie didn't just appear not to notice the attention, she genuinely had no idea of the effect she had on men. He shook his head, the girl was something else. The hours ticked by and Dean began to get restless. Weren't they ever going home!

The group had graduated from their booth to one of the pool tables in the back section of the bar and were playing their sixth game. Emily was terrible, Janet was worse, Camille was excellent, Milo was average, and Colin was steaming because Cami was kicking his ass. As for Reggie, well, her style of play was a whole different animal. Watching her, Dean decided that it was all about confidence. Though she had no technique, when she started out, she wasn't bad. Her method was simple, line it up until lit feels right, then give it a whack. Then, once she began to do well, it was like she crumbled in the face of expectation and got consistently worse with each shot. At least, that was what Dean figured, since she wasn't drinking.

It was half past midnight when Cami's persistent yawns, Janet's sleepy eyes, and Colin's crankiness, signaled it was time to go home to bed. Problem was, everyone but Emily was ready to go, and Colin's pushiness was only making her more stubborn. Finally, after a brief tug of war over her purse ended up in minor spat between the lovers, Reggie dragged Milo aside.

Reggie's head hurt. She loved her friends, but sometimes Emily's petulance and Colin's impatience made her want to whap them both upside the head. They could be monumentally immature, and the alcohol wasn't helping. After struggling momentarily with Emily for her purse, Reggie gave up. Colin's taunting had left Emily furious and hurt, and she couldn't sort them out while everyone was hanging around. Fighting was part of Emily and Colin's dynamic, she knew the spat wouldn't last, but she also knew that Emily meant it when she said she wasn't going anywhere with Colin tonight. Tomorrow he would be sorry, and she would be reasonable, and it would all be okay, but right now, right now they needed another solution.

"Look", she pulled Milo off to one side. "You take the other's home and I'll follow with Em in a bit. She'll be out of steam in less than half an hour, and I'll get us a cab".

"No way", Milo was shaking his head. "I'll stay with you and we can send the others home". Reggie smiled at him, Milo was a total sweetheart, but she knew she was right.

"No" she shook her head. "I'll never talk her round if we have an audience. We could be here all night. You're just gonna have to trust me. Don't worry, we're in a crowded public place. Nothing is going to happed to us." He still looked mutinous.

"Really Mi. I know what I'm doing. I can take care of myself". Milo knew it was true. He and Reggie were good friends, only brought closer together by their mutual love for Janet. He knew she was capable of taking care of herself.

"Fine, okay. But I'm leaving you guys the car. We'll take the cab. That way you won't have to wait outside."

"Thanks hon" Reggie smiled. "That's a good idea".

_What in the hell was she thinking._ Dean shook his head as Reggie waved goodbye to the majority of her friends and took up her place beside the stubborn Emily. He looked around. The remaining crowd was pretty rough, mostly locals, and they were looking at the two girls as though they were fresh meat. Reggie had her head cocked and was talking earnestly into her friend's face when the first man made his move. He was tall, skinny, and not unattractive in a scruffy way. Dean rose from his seat and moved to the end of the bar.

"Hey there", said Scruffy. Reggie looked up, surprise and confusion written clearly all over her face. "You and your friend looking to have a little fun tonight?"

A little shorter than usuual I know. I'll try to update again today.


	7. Chapter 7

Reggie tried not gape. The man was leering speculatively at her breasts. She smiled at him, forcing his attention to her face.

"No, I'm afraid we're about to be on our way home". She gently pushed out with her gift, he wasn't dangerous. Just lonely. She softened.

"But thank you, what was your name?"

"Uh, Billy". Billy seemed to be a bit confused. She was saying no to him, but her smile was so pretty, and she was so nice, he didn't really feel too bad about it.

"Well Billy, maybe you could help us out. We need the number of a cab company" Reggie hoped to distract him with the false request. Billy scratched his head.

"I'd try BlueCab. They're one of the cheaper companies in town".

"Why thank you Billy" Reggie smiled at him again, "We'll do that", and reaching into her bag for her cell phone, she tuned away. The gentle dismissal seemed to work, and Billy wandered off.

Dean was impressed. He could hardly believe that Reggie's gentle, polite refusal had gotten such good results. Maybe he had underestimated her.

Reggie replaced her phone in her bag and dug for the keys to the SUV. She wanted to get out of here. Now. Billy had been harmless, but there were more where he came from and once the floodgates had been opened….too late... Another man, this one considerably larger, and more menacing, was approaching her. Some of his buddies from a nearby table cheered him on. He was relatively good looking, with black hair and brown eyes, and thought a great deal of himself.

"Hi", he leaned on the bar next to Reggie. She ignored him, still digging for the keys. "I'm Bryan, I own this bar" he continued, unfazed. "I could arrange it so you ladies didn't need to take a taxi home".

"No" Reggie finally looked up. Her eyes and smile were tight, "Thank you. But we have our car outside".

"Well that's a shame". Again Reggie didn't respond. "Now c'mon honey. No need to be rude. You were real nice to Billy over there". He slid his hand suggestively along her forearm. Reggie went totally still, and Dean slipped off his stool. When she raised her head, he took an involuntary step back. Her eyes were like chips of golden ice, and her chin had a disdainful tilt to it. She looked slowly from Bryan's hand on her arm to his face, her eyes cutting into him. Her voice was soft, but cold, and carried an irrefutable authority.

"Let go of me, _now!"_

Bryan released her almost before he knew what he was doing. Her eyes were chilling, and her look made him feel as though he were lower than pond scum. Reggie dropped her eyes, but her stiff posture kept the man at arms length. Dean relaxed again. She was batting two for two. However, Bryan, though deterred, was not done. Looking around Reggie to Emily, he slid his slimy smile back into place.

"How 'bout you pretty lady?" Emily, clearly drunk, smiled back.

"How bout what?" she asked. Bryan's smile grew.

"Oh all manner of things. Why don't we head upstairs and talk about it". This seemed like a perfectly acceptable idea to the tipsy Emily.

"Okay", she slid off her barstool. Maybe there would be somewhere to lie down.

Reggie glared at the man who was smooth talking her drunken friend. She shoved purposefully between them.

"You aren't going anywhere".

"Why not?" asked Emily disoriented.

"Yeah, why not?" sneered Bryan. "You change your mind? I don't mind a little two for one". Reggie took Emily's arms.

"We are leaving."

"But I don't wanna" Emily pouted. Reggie gritted her teeth. She wanted to kill Emily. The longer they stayed here the more confident Bryan grew. His friends were egging him on and he was starting to feel stubborn, and aggressive. He took one of Emily's arms.

"Your friend here seems to disagree with you. Why don't you run along. I'll see that she gets home safe". Reggie outright snarled at him.

"She is NOT staying here with you!"

Bryan gave her a nasty smile, wrenching away the hand Reggie still had wrapped around Emily's arm. Reggie narrowed her eyes. She was, by now, more than a little frightened. If Emily could have just kept her mouth shut they'd be long gone by now. Bryan was a lot larger than she was and his grip was bruising the delicate skin on her wrist, but she ignored that. She was too busy calculating how best to disable him, panicking would do neither of them any good, she had to protect her friend. A good swift kick to the groin should do it. But then there was the question of his friends. Her gift told her they would come to his aid. Damn! She'd have to hope the element of surprise would give her and Emily time to make a dash for the car, there were too many for her to handle on her own.

She looked at her friend. All of the commotion and Bryan's grip on her arm seemed to finally be registering. She was feeling confused and scared. Reggie took a deep breath, which came out in a startled whoosh when a second large, male hand grabbed Bryan by the wrist holding her, fingers digging into the tendons. Dean was smiling, but his voice was soft and deadly. "I think you'd better let the lady go".

Dean's eyes narrowed when the bastard put his hands on her. Up till now she'd been doing pretty well. And if it weren't for Emily, who, with the joyous obliviousness of the well and truly drunk, was encouraging the guy, she might have gotten out of there without him. But the situation was now rapidly spiraling out of control and Bryan had more than a few friends hanging around. No doubt just the kind of creeps who'd be willing to help their friend corral a couple of unwilling women. He stepped up to the larger man, digging into the tendons of the arm by which he held Reggie, forcing him to let go with a grunt of pain.

"Who the hell are you?" Bryan demanded. Clearly he hadn't been expecting any resistance.

"I'm a friend of the ladies" Dean said casually, motioning for Reggie to grab Emily and get going. Reggie, never happier to see anyone in her life, immediately did just that. Grabbing her friend by the arm, she bundled her towards the door. Dean followed after them, keeping an eye on Bryan and his goons as he went.

Reggie hustled Emily out into the cool night air. Her mind was racing. Thank God for Dean. She's almost forgotten he was there. She turned as he came out the door behind them.

"Thanks so much. I don't know what I was thinking. That was my own fault. Milo was right, I shouldn't have stayed on my own…." she trailed off. Even if she hadn't been able to sense the tension in Dean, she would have been able to see it on his face, and in his stance. It read, Ready to Rumble.

"You think they're going to come after us". It was a statement, not a question.

The door to the bar opened and the four men piled out.

"Yup. You and Emily get in the car and get going. Call Sam, tell him where I am".

Reggie was incredulous. "What are you going to do?!"

"You'll never make it if someone doesn't hold them off". It was a clam, matter of fact statement, accompanied by a cocky smile.

"Not worried about me, are ya darlin'? You and Emily make tracks. I'll be right behind you". Reggie could feel the resolve beneath the smile. She wasn't going to change his mind. Turning, she grabbed Emily by the hand and led her towards the truck.

"Here", she pressed the keys into her friend's hand. "Get in the truck and get going. Here's my cell phone, Sam's number is in the phonebook. Call him and tell him what's going on".

"Wha? What about you?" demanded Emily, sobering by the second. Reggie glanced back at Dean, facing down the four men. She really didn't like the feeling she was getting from them. They wouldn't just beat him up and let him go.

"I have to help Dean. Please don't argue with me. Just go" she gave Emily a little shove.

"I'll be fine". The whole mess was her fault in the first place, she could hardly leave Dean to clean it up alone. Emily climbed into the big black SUV.

"Oh God" she murmured, as Reggie headed back the way she had come. She had the cell phone in hand as she drove out of the lot.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Okay, I hadn't planned on posting this tonight because I'm really nervous about it. This is my first action sequence, and I've been working on it for awhile. I'm trying really hard to make this realistic( remember, when dealing with supernatural, this is a realtive term), and as I told someone earlier today, I will shoot myself if I turn Reggie into a Marysue-esque cliche, so, I hope I've managed to do this in a way that does her justice. Thanks for reading.

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Dean heard the car roar to life behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. The girls were gone. He now focused on sizing up the four men descending on him.

"Okay, boys…." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Who wants to go first?"

Bryan had about three inches and forty-pounds on him, but his lumbering gait said he would be clumsy. Dean was more worried about his tall, wiry looking friend. It was the man in the cowboy hat, and he had a long smooth stride and a nasty gleam in his eye. The other two were fairly close to Dean in size, one very skinny the other slightly fat. They looked like brawlers, but not fighters. Still, four on one, he hoped Sam got here soon. Then he heard the sound of shoes on gravel, and spun around. Reggie was walking back toward him.

"What in the Hell are you doing?!" he barked at her. Emily and the SUV were nowhere to be seen. _Goddamnit_! Reggie looked up at him, her eyes and face portraying a calm she didn't feel.

"I couldn't let you face them alone".

"What!" demanded Dean. He hadden't expected his damsel in distress to play hero. Reggie shrugged.

"This is my fault. I came back to help".

"Well get out of here!" Dean growled. Shoving her back as the men approached. "I can't worry about you and fight them at the same time. You don't like me remember. Don't worry about me. It's only four to one".

Reggie didn't think so. There was a malicious felling coming from darkness to the right, and the bouncer at the door was also projecting hostility.

A man stepped out of the shadows were she had felt his seething presence.

"I think you'd better count again" she told Dean softly. He looked at the man and cursed under his breath.

"Moby Dick over there is going to get into it too" she told him. He gave her an irritated look.

"How do you know?" he demanded. The giant stepped off the stoop.

"Shit!"

Reggie drew a breath, _you said it_. On the inside she was terrified. What the hell _did _she think she was doing? What kind of help could she be? She'd never actually fought someone before, to defend herself that was. Still, she steadied herself. _You've done a ton of sparring during your training. You do know what you're doing_. If she couldn't convince herself, at the very least she should convince Dean. Or he would get hurt trying to protect her. She thought quickly. _What would make Dean feel more confident_?

The answer was simple. Sam, or possibly, himself? Reggie thought she'd hit upon the right solution. She carefully broadcast feelings of supreme confidence and competence at him. Dean looked over at Reggie. She smiled at him. It was a cocky grin. Christ, she reminded him of himself.

"Most little girls get ballet lessons" she told him, assuming a relaxed, ready stance. "I got martial arts, karate and ju-jitsu. Since I was three".

He looked incredulous. She was being flip? Now?! Truth be told, she hardly seemed worried. Dean began to feel a bit better. He thanked God for independent, modern women, maybe she knew what she was doing after all.

Dean moved up, slightly ahead of her, deliberately engaging the wiry man. Bryan went around him, heading for Reggie.

"You should have left when you had the chance bitch!" he growled.

Reggie shoved aside her feelings of fear and doubt, and tapping into Dean again, she spun out a little thread of his confidence. She needed to borrow some of his boldness. She thought about Bryan grabbing Emily, thought about how her friend had been afraid, she let rage flow into her. Adrenaline began to pump in her veins, and suddenly she was glad that Bryan had sought her out. He struck clumsily, one large meaty fist swinging in a protracted arc towards her face. _Oh_, thought Reggie, feeling detached, _this **is** just like sparring_. Except that the fear and the anger were greater, and so was the adrenaline.

As it always had when she sparred, time slowed for Reggie. Bryan's striking hand moved at a snail's pace, and she was long gone by the time it would have reached her. Karate was about efficiency, not long drawn-out skirmishes. Master Wood's voice rang in her mind. _Every block should count as a strike, every bit of your enemy's momentum should be made to work against him._

Sliding away to Bryan's left side, she grabbed his striking arm with her right hand and pulled, increasing his forward momentum and, stepping into the motion of his body, brought up her right knee. It slammed into kidneys. He bawled with pain, but Reggie wasn't finished yet. _If your enemy goes down, make sure he stays there._ She thought that was particularly applicable in a situation where you were outnumbered three to one.

Still holding the doubled over Bryan's left arm, she stepped out and around, her leg swung up, and, knee locked, she delivered an axe kick, her heel connecting sharply with the spot where his neck met his spine. He crumpled to the ground. She looked up in time to see Dean dodge a blow from the cowboy. Steel glinted in the moonlight. The man had a knife!

"Dean!" she cried. He waved her off with one hand. But her shout had attracted the attention of the other three men. Moby Dick was standing off to the side. He appeared to be waiting for something.

Dean watched out of the corner of his eye as Reggie ducked around Bryan's first blow. Christ! She was fast! His attention came back to the cowboy just in time for him to block the man's first jab.

"So I guess we're not gonna talk about this" Dean shrugged, fine by him.

The jab was followed quickly by a flurry of blows, all of which Dean rebuffed easily. The other man stepped back and pulled out his trump card. Dean stood calmly and waited. Reggie yelled his name as the man struck out again, this time, knife in hand. Dean just smiled wider. He knew the man was armed. So was he. Dean's hunting knife hissed as it exited the scabbard at the small of his back, metal screeching along metal as he blocked, blade with blade. He looked at the other man as they broke apart.

"Mine's bigger", he mocked.

With a snarl cowboy was on him, Dean danced back, out of reach, and saw fat and skinny heading for Reggie. _Damn_. He dodged cowboy again and took the man by surprise when, after deking around his blow, he kept on going. He tackled skinny in mid stride, and taking the other man completely unawares, belted him hard with his fist and dealt him two sharp blows with the butt of his knife. Skinny collapsed into unconsciousness, and Dean launched himself off the prone body, rolling clear as cowboy came up stabbing at him from behind.

Reggie's breath caught in her throat as she watched Dean narrowly escape cowboy's blade. He was trying to protect her. Idiot! This time, feeling more confident, she didn't wait for her opponent to reach her. Advancing on the chubby man coming her way she turned and struck out quickly with her right leg. The blade of her foot snapped out and connected with the centre of his protruding gut, her leg recoiled and struck again, heel to solar-plexus, and again, heel to face. He went down. She didn't see the mystery man from the parking lot come up behind her. She heard him though. Ducking and spinning she scrambled away, and looked over her shoulder to see how Dean was doing. Not too badly from the looks of things.

Dean grimaced. He had a long shallow cut on his forearm and he'd have bruises in the morning, but took solace in the fact that cowboy was in much worse shape than him. Dean had yet to lay his blade on the other man, but then, he hadn't been trying that hard. He'd landed several nice punches, and a couple of good kicks. Cowboy's nose was mashed and bloody, he bled from a split brow and a split lip. His left eye was blackened having become acquainted with Dean's right cross early in the action, and his knee ached where Dean had kicked him. This sure wasn't how he'd planned to spend his Saturday night. Concentrating on blocking the next swing of Dean's knife, cowboy caught the blade of the hunting knife on his own and bore down, locking the two men close together. Dean's gold-green eyes bored into his, and for the second time that night, he grinned at his enemy while they sweated and scuffled.

"Bad idea Dude. I'm mighty hard headed", and with that, he jerked forward, slamming his forehead into cowboy's, and after that, cowboy saw nothing but stars. Backing away and shaking his head to clear it, Dean looked for Reggie.

Reggie darted, dodged and flitted around mystery man. He pressed her hard, advancing continually. She didn't try to block his blows but concentrated on avoiding them. She was afraid any attempt at retaliation would present him with an opening. She was overmatched and she knew it. Only her speed had kept her from serious harm so far, and she knew she couldn't keep it up forever. And then, Dean was there. He came up alongside mystery man and caught the arm descending toward her, slamming his elbow into the other man's stomach. But mystery man recovered quickly enough to reverse Dean's grip on his arm and twist it up behind him. Dean grunted and lashed out sharply with his booted foot. Lunging back to avoid the contact, mystery man was forced to let him go. Dean spun around to face him.

"Damn. A professional" he muttered, recognizing the training behind mystery man's elegant, controlled moves.

To make matters worse, Moby Dick had finally decided to join in the fun, and was slowly advancing on him.

"Shit, Reggie get out of here!"

"And what" she snapped back. "Leave you with these two? They'll make mince meat out of you between them. You deal with that one. Leave Goliath to me."

Reggie's biblical reference did nothing to reassure Dean. It only served to remind him of how small and fragile she was compared to her opponent. Moby Dick was taller than Sam and must have weighed nearly three hundred pounds.

"What the hell are you thinking?" Dean demanded. "He's easily got a foot and a half on you in reach alone!" Reggie frowned at him.

"Don't bother me, I'm busy." Reggie had hit upon Dean's secret. It was all about attitude.

Distracted again, Dean hissed as mystery man's fist connected with his face. _Fuck!_ He felt his body fly backwards and slam into the ground. Pushing to his feet he spat gravel and blood. Wiggling his jaw experimentally he bit back a moan. Another one of those and he wouldn't be walking home. Mystery man advanced and Dean focused in on him. They exchanged blows slowly now, each taking the other's measure. After a few minutes of dancing Dean glanced over to see Reggie landing yet another ineffectual blow on Moby Dick.

"Screw this" he snarled, and charged at mystery man. The other man shuffled backward, dropping his left foot back in anticipation of Dean's opening right hook. Dean waited until the last possible second, until mystery man was shifting his weight to counterstrike, and dropped onto his back. Sliding the last few feet on his butt, Dean stopped right beside mystery man, and with an evil grin, delivered a short sharp punch to the other man's groin. Mystery man went down like a ton of bricks. "Finesse" Dean told him as he climbed to his feet, "is over-rated".

Reggie growled in frustration, thumping ineffectually on Moby Dick's liver. It wasn't that she couldn't hit him. It was just that she couldn't _hurt_ him. He was too tall and too well padded. She couldn't get to the vulnerable parts of his body. Eyes, ears, throat, all were too high above her, and kidneys, liver and solar plexus were all covered by a thick layer of fat and muscle. What made it worse was that she could only strike one blow at a time, darting quickly in and out of Moby's reach. The man had arms like a gorilla. Preparing to dodge yet again as Moby bore down on her, she looked up suddenly, at the sound of her name, and back, just in time to see Moby's fist before it connected with her face.

Aching everywhere, Dean headed towards where Reggie was dancing about with the enormous bouncer. He grew alarmed as he watched the huge man barrel towards her. What the hell was she doing! Why didn't she move? "Reggie!" he yelled out to warn her. Her face turned towards him, just as Moby Dick swung his massive fist.

_Shit!_ thought Reggie as she flew backwards. _This is going to be an unpleasant landing_. She was right. She landed on her back, skidding along the rough pavement; she felt her skin scrape right through the fabric of her jeans and hoodie. Coming to a stop, she lay still for a moment, dazed, until Dean's face appeared above her.

Dropping to his knees beside her he pulled her into a sitting position, Reggie shook her head.

_Oh God! Oh God!_ Thought Dean as Reggie flew through the air, wincing as she hit the ground hard and slid along the pavement. When he reached her he fully expected her to be unconscious, but she wasn't. Propping her up, he stared at her in amazement as she shook her head to clear it.

"What in the hell were you doing?" he exploded, relieved that, miraculously, she wasn't badly hurt.

"Me!" she demanded, sounding irritated. "That was your fault!" she poked him in the chest. Dean gaped at her.

"What!"

"If you hadn't distracted me that would never have happened." she said, groaning as she got to her feet. Moby stood a little bit back, seemingly content to allow them to gather themselves. Small wonder. Obviously he wanted them to be feeling fit, before he crushed them.

"I can't believe you're alright", Dean shook his head disbelievingly and said, looking at Moby Dick,

"A blow like that should have knocked your head off". Reggie glared at him.

"A blow like that _would_ have knocked my head off. He never connected."

"What?" demanded Dean, confused.

"_I_ threw _myself_ backwards, it was the only way to escape the impact. It would have broken my skull. As it is…" she sucked her breath in through her teeth, "I only have some scrapes to deal with. And you were right about that whole reach thing. I'll have to find someway to compensate for that this time."

"This time!" Dean practically squawked. "What the hell do you mean 'this time'?"

"Well" Reggie shrugged, "you've got unfinished business." She pointed to mystery man who was getting slowly to his feet.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Dean swore. "He's inhuman. He shouldn't be able to walk for a week after that!"

In full 'Dean' mode, Reggie just patted him on the shoulder and gave him a little shove to get him moving. She had bigger fish to fry. Looking around she spied an old broom sitting against the side of the roadhouse. She smiled, _perfect_. Time to level the playing field.

Dean strode angrily towards mystery man. "Dude" he snarled at him, "You shoulda stayed down".

Meanwhile, Reggie jogged over to the broom and, after giving it a cursory examination, nodded and, resting the head on the ground at a diagonal from her body, snapped it off with a well placed blow of her heel. Rotating her makeshift staff easily in her hands, she smiled. Moby was trying to creep up behind her. Spinning around, she slammed the blunt end of the staff down on the instep of his elephant like foot with all her might. He howled.

"You'd have about as much luck sneaking on _these_" she said, stabbing the other foot "as a rhinoceros in a china shop". Stepping back, she waited for him to regain his composure. It was only fair.

Mystery man may have been up, but he was still feeling the ill effects of Dean's earlier, x-rated wallop. He was slower, and moved gingerly. That was probably why he suddenly decided to engage in a little psychological warfare.

"You'd better get out of here" he growled at Dean. "When Wally gets done with your little girlfriend over there, he's gonna snap you in two like a twig".

However, the intimidating effect of his words were considerably lessoned by Wally's well timed wail of pain. Dean grinned, Reggie seemed to have solved the reach problem.

"Who? You mean Moby Dick over there? Somehow I don't think you're gonna be gettin' too much back up from that quarter. As for my girlfriend, you can just call her Captain Ahab". With that he wadded into the other man, fists flying. It didn't take much to subdue him for the second time.

As for Reggie, well Moby wasn't too quick, and the staff was the perfect weapon for dealing with him. _Thump thump_, the blunt end connected with his sides. _Thwack_, it snapped across his knuckles as he lunged at her, fists leading. Reggie knew she had him. With the staff she could both increase the force of her blows, and attack from a safe distance. _Whoosh_, the air flew out of Moby's lungs as the staff stabbed him in the solar plexus. He bent over, _CRACK_, went the staff across the back of his head. _Thud_ went Moby as he hit the ground.

Dean prodded mystery man's inert body with the toe of his boot. This time, he wanted to make sure the man was out of it. He didn't move. Dean smiled with satisfaction. Fingering his sore jaw, he turned to watch the show, as Reggie finished of Goliath. She spun her make-shift staff in her hands, twirling and circling with the grace of a ballerina, using the circular momentum to build speed and strike, _hard_. It took less than five moves to finish of the oversized man.

Dean winced as Reggie executed the coup de grace. Jamming the end of the staff backwards into the giant's chest, she spun out and away from him as he doubled over, and, never breaking momentum, twirled the staff around and down in a graceful arc, laying it along the back of his head. Goliath ate dirt and didn't get up again. Headlights speared into Dean's eyes, and the black SUV raced into the parking lot, followed closely by the impala. _Typical_ thought Dean, _just in time for nothing_.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Okay, so it turns out I'm a glutton for good reviews. They make for excellent motivation. I'm glad you are all enjoying so much.

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Sam shot out of the car and over to his brother. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to get a coherent explanation out of the still tipsy, and slightly hysterical, Emily. At which time, he'd grabbed the keys and headed out, agreeing to meet Emily back at the parking lot. The sight that greeted his eyes was not what he'd been expecting. Six bodies, including one of the largest men Sam had ever seen, were strewn about the parking lot like so much flotsam, and Dean was standing nonchalantly amid the carnage.

"What, the hell! Are you okay?"

Dean grinned. "Aren't I always?"

"Well what happened." Sam searched Dean's face for signs of injury. Aside from a nasty looking bruise beginning to purple along his jaw, and a slightly 'battered' air, he seemed fine.

"Damn" Sam bent over, breathing hard, his heart had been in his throat the whole way over, turning a five minute drive into eternity. He'd imagined the worst, after all, Emily had said there were four guys. Sam looked at the bodies littering the pavement.

"Nice work" he said impressed. But Dean was shaking his head.

"I had help". Sam raised his eyebrows, and Dean pointed to Reggie, who was no longer looking quite as impressive as she had only moments ago, and held up three fingers.

Reggie blinked in the glare of the headlights. _Thank God_. It was over. Looking at the ruin around her she began to feel queasy. A voice in her head began to run over all of the _very_ bad ways this could have ended. Her hands began to shake. Emily's tear-stained face appeared before her.

"Oh my God! Oh My GOD! Reggie, are you alright? You're bleeding everywhere". Reggie barely heard her, or Sam, as she sank slowly to the ground. All of a sudden she was exhausted. The crystalline clarity that had dominated her senses during the fight began to fade into fuzziness. It was all becoming a blur in her mind. Action and reaction, the details were murky, and she was tired, so tired. She smiled slightly at Sam as he scooped her up and deposited her in the front seat of the SUV. His concern was palpable, and she roused herself enough to pat his arm reassuringly.

"I'll be fine Sam. I'll see you later". Somewhere in the distance she heard Dean talking to Emily.

"She'll be okay. It's aftershock. From all the adrenaline. A good night's sleep and she'll be back to normal. You go on, and I'll follow you home to make sure you get there okay".

Emily climbed into the seat beside her and started the engine. Reggie watched Dean climb into the impala in the side view mirror. She closed her eyes.

"Don't worry hon" Emily's voice was breaking. "We'll get you home. Take care of you".

Something inside Reggie began to rebel. She hated being taken care of. She hated feeling like an invalid. Angry with herself for being so weak, she forced her mind out of the foggy dreamland where it had retreated, and clamped down with her will. She looked at her hands, forced them to stop shaking, and deliberately calmed her ragged breathing. By the time they were pulling into the hotel parking lot half an hour later, she was feeling better. She turned to look at Emily.

"Em" . "Yes" came the immediate response. Reggie looked into her eyes.

"Look, could you do me a favour and not tell the others about what happened tonight". Emily looked shocked and opened her mouth to protest, but Reggie held up a hand.

"Please Em. I don't want to upset them. And I don't want them fussing." She grinned.

"Besides, Colin will probably give me a lecture and then I'll have to punch him in the nose. And then were will we be". That made Emily grin because it was so true. Colin would lecture. He's get that slightly condescending tone to his voice and a superior look in his eye. Emily smiled.

"Are you sure? Right now, I kinda feel like he deserves one". Reggie laughed.

"I'll teach you and you can do it yourself."

"Deal", they shook hands and Emily pulled Reggie into a tight hug.

"That was the bravest thing I've ever seen" she whispered. Reggie squirmed.

"Dean did all the work".

"Really" Emily smiled wickedly, "I'm kind of sorry I missed that".

Reggie rolled her eyes, "It was a disgusting display of testosterone. Let's go to bed. I'm exhausted".

The two girls climbed out of the truck and walked into the hotel. Emily looked back and raised a hand to Dean, sitting quietly in the impala. Reggie didn't see him.

Dean started the engine and called Sam as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"Yeah, yeah. They got here fine. Mhmmm. I know. Well, we don't know that the demon is after her. She should be alright here for now. I mean, like you keep saying, she doesn't fit the pattern. Yeah. I'll see you when I get there." Dean snapped the phone shut and rubbed his eyes. He was tired and he was hurting. He couldn't wait to crawl into bed.

Sam closed his phone. He knew that Dean was right. Reggie didn't fit the pattern. She probably wasn't connected to the demon. As to what she had to do with his vision, well, they'd figure that out tomorrow. Sam was worried about Dean. He'd heard the tiredness in his brother's voice, and knew that the cut on Dean's arm, while not serious, must be sore. He wondered if they had any hot water bottles. That would help to ease some of the muscles he knew would be aching.

Sam was feeling guilty. He should have gotten there sooner, been there to help his brother. Rummaging through the bathroom cupboards and coming up empty, he decided to check at the front desk. It wasn't like this place had room service. Grabbing the keys and stepping over the salt line across the door, he headed for the main building. Stepping into the tiny lobby and up to the front desk, he smiled at the pretty, middle-aged woman working there.

"Hi, I'm staying in room nine with my brother. He's had a little mishap, bit clumsy" he improvised, not able to resist needling Dean, even in his absence. "I was wondering if you had some hot water bottles we could use?"

"Certainly sir" she batted her eyes at him. "I just have to grab them from the storage closet. How many would you like".

Sam pulled up an image of the battered Dean in his mind's eye, "Four, maybe five?"

The woman raised her eyebrows, "That must have been some mishap."

Sam grinned, "Oh he's always tripping over his own feet. Took a header down a flight of stairs".

"Oh my" the woman shook her head, opening a door across the room marked, 'Housekeeping', she produced several orange, rubber hot water bottles and passed them to Sam. The phone began to ring.

"Tell your brother I hope he's feeling better" she said as she hurried around the desk to answer. Sam nodded his thanks and headed for the door. He heard the woman say brightly,

"Motor Inn, may I help you". Sam had his hand on the door handle.

"What was the name again? Thorpington?"

He stopped. "Hmmmm, Thorpington, Regina. Thorpington, Thorpington, Thorpington. No I'm sorry, I don't see that name here. Yes. No problem, have a nice night". Sam stood frozen in the doorway.

The woman bustled back around the desk. "I'm sorry dear, was there something else you wanted?" Sam looked at her blankly, and icy fist squeezing his heart.

"What, no, no, I'm fine" he mumbled, and dashed out of the office. He barreled into the room and snatched his cell phone from the night stand.

Dean was humming along softly with Led Zepplin when his phone rang again. Hell. Sam was worse than an old woman. He flipped it open.

"Dean. Dean!" Sam sounded panicked, Dean went from drowsy to full alert in the space of a heartbeat.

"What is it Sam?"

"Dean, I just overheard a call at the hotel. Someone is trying to find out where Reggie is staying". Dean cursed under his breath.

"Yeah, someone or something".

The tires of the impala spewed gravel as Dean jerked the wheel, spinning the car in an abrupt one-eighty, speeding back the way he had come.

Emily waved to Reggie from the doorway of her room across the hall, and watched until she went inside. Reggie closed the door to her room behind her and let out a sigh of relief. Bed, _Thank God_. Then, she froze. Where was Camille? Feeling alarmed she cast her gift out, searching, and leaned back against the door in relief. She was with Janet and Milo, they were fast asleep. Probably decided to watch a movie or something. _Silly_ she chided herself. _You're still all wound up from earlier_.

Earlier, Reggie looked down at her bloody clothes. Gingerly, she peeled her hoodie away from her lacerated arm. _Ouch!_ _I guess I'd better take care of that_. Reggie walked into the bathroom and ran the taps in the bathtub. Carefully, she shimmed out of her clothes. Sitting on the floor by the tub, she gently pressed a washcloth over the worst of her scrapes. When the dried blood loosened enough to allow it, she carefully whipped away the grit and gravel coating her wounds. She hissed softly as she awkwardly applied antiseptic to a ragged abrasion on the back of her right thigh, and looked in the mirror, so she could see to apply it to the raw patch on the back of her right shoulder. That was where she had taken the brunt of the impact while avoiding Moby's fist. The image of it, big and burly, flashed before her eyes. "Do _not_ got there!" she told herself out loud.

The whole scenario was ridiculous. It didn't seem real. What she was doing now was so pedestrian. Maybe if she pretended it hadn't happened, she could get herself to believe it. Hell, she barely believed it now. It was so insane. _I'll deal with it tomorrow. _She concentrated on applying band-aids, and where they wouldn't do, surgical gauze, to her wounds. Finally finished, she threw her ruined, bloody clothes into a garbage bag and stuck them in a corner. She didn't want to send Camille into a panic in the morning. Shivering, she slipped into a pair soft, blue and white stripped flannel pajamas, cleaned up the worst of the mess in the bathroom and prepared to climb into bed, her brain had already all but shut down. The sudden sound of someone knocking on the door nearly made her jump out of her skin.

Dean pulled the impala to a screeching halt behind the hotel. He studied the small, three story building as he climbed out of the car, noting its balconies and the fire escape. Jogging into the lobby he smiled at the young receptionist.

"Hi.", quick glance at the name tag, "Michelle. I was wondering if you could tell me what room my friend is staying in? The name is Thorpington, Regina Thorpington". He prayed the room was registered under Reggie's name, and that Michelle was as vapid as she looked and wouldn't give him any trouble getting the information. Of course, that would mean that she'd probably give it to the demon too.

"Are you the guy who called earlier?" asked Michelle, confirming Dean's fears.

"Uh, yeah" He smiled again, and looked sheepish. "I know it was only a few minutes ago, but I've completely forgotten already." He tapped the side of his head, "Mind like a rusty sieve". Michelle giggled,

"It's rooms 241, 242 and 243 remember?"

"Yes, right, 241, 42 and 43. Thank you Michelle", Dean was already on his way to the elevator. All the rooms were registered to Reggie's name. Dean sprinted down the hall, and came to a halt outside the door to room 241. What in the hell was he supposed to say? _Hey there Reggie, long time no see. I'm afraid you're gonna have to come with me because there's someone tryin' to find you and I think it's the demon that killed my Mom, Sam's girlfriend and possibly, your Granny._ Dean shrugged, semantics, one way or the other, she was coming with him. He knocked on the door.

Reggie eyed the door suspiciously. She could not believe what she was feeling. She knew, without a doubt, that Dean Winchester was on the other side. He was stressed out, worried, and, a little bit afraid. _This had better be good_. Against her better judgment, she threw open the door.

"What are you doing here?"


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Thanks so much for the encouraging comments. I hope I've done justice to the show's heart-pounding standards with this. Enjoy.

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Dean was just about to move onto room 242 across the hall when the door swung open. The lady did not look happy. Dean couldn't blame her, too bad her night was only going to get worse. He stepped into the room, took stock of her pajamas;

_Jesus_, she looked like she was about sixteen years old and there were shadows under her eyes. His gaze went to the gauze he saw peeking out from underneath her collar and the edge of her sleeve.

"You okay?" He said roughly. He was concerned, Reggie softened.

"Yes". She looked at the cut on his arm and her eyes widened, "Are you?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, no worries", he walked into the room forcing her to give way before him. Quickly he shut the door, locked it, and slid the deadbolt into place.

Reggie backed away from Dean as he crowded into the room. He was highly agitated, and locking the door, he went to the closet and rummaged around.

"What are you doing?" Reggie asked cautiously.

If it weren't for the fact that she knew for certain that he meant her no harm, she would have been a lot more frightened. As it was, she was only mildly irritated. Dean heard the hesitancy and irritation in her voice. He ignored it.

"Looking for your jacket".

"And why would that be?" asked Reggie, knowing full well she wouldn't like his answer. Though the only obvious possibility seemed too ludicrous to contemplate. "You don't think I'm going somewhere with you".

"Actually" Dean emerged with her chocolate coloured winter jacket in his hand, "I do."

Reggie stood facing Dean, her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. "No".

Dean sighed. "You _are_ coming, weather you like it or not."

"Are you threatening me!" she sputtered.

"No." He said calmly, but urgency and fear seethed beneath the surface. "I'm laying out your options."

"Why?" Reggie demanded. "Where are we going and why do we need too?"

And she knew that much was true. He was absolutely convinced that they _needed_ to leave. That was the _only_ reason she wasn't screeching her brains out at him. Telling him that he was insane and so was she, to even be listening to this nonsense in the middle of the night after participating in a bar room brawl. Her throat ached with the effort of holding back.

Reggie looked ready to crack. Dean sighed agian.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you". Reggie threw up her hands.

"I don't believe you now! What have you got to lose?"

She had a point. Dean had to admit, so far he'd been mighty impressed with Sam's little intellectual. It had taken a helluva lot of guts to come back to help him at the roadhouse, and she'd held her own, despite her fear, and he knew she'd had to have been afraid. No she'd sucked it up, accepted the facts of the situation, and come out swinging. Maybe she could handle it. He rubbed his hand over his face. Even if she didn't believe him, he probably owed her the truth.

"Fine. But when I'm done. We're going. One way or the other". Even if he had to cart her over his shoulder.

"Okay" he began to pace agitatedly, and then spun to face here. "Here's the Cole's notes version. You remember Sam telling you that our mother died in a house fire?".

It hurt every time he said it, thought it. You'd think it wouldn't be so bad, after all these years, but it was. Reggie nodded mutely. The loss of his mother still hurt, and it was all tangled up with feelings of guilt, of anger, of love and heavy responsibility.

"Well, she didn't die in a house fire. When Sam was six months old she was burned alive by a demon. Our father spent his life tracking said fucking hell spawn, and taught us to do the same. At least, he did until it" Dean swallowed hard, "killed him earlier this year".

The guilt was crushing, suffocating. Reggie raised her hands futilely to ward it off. How could he stand there and look, and act, so normally, when all that was going on inside him?

"Anyway. Bottom line. We think the same thing may have killed your Granny, and now, we think it's after you", he said with characteristic bluntness.

Reggie sat stock still. A demon? Of course, she knew that such things must exist. Hadn't Gran warned her countless times. _You must never abuse your powers. Evil things are drawn to evil doings._ A demon made sense. What else could have killed Gran. Reggie had always known the house fire story was ridiculous. But why would it come after her?

Dean was surprised. So far, Reggie had not exhibited any of the expected reactions. She wasn't screaming, or crying, or telling him he was crazy. She was quiet. She appeared to be...thinking.

"Hey" Dean waved a hand in front of her face, "Anybody home?"

"What? Yes. Yes. I'm listening", said Reggie. "But why do you think it's after me?"

Dean shrugged, "We don't know exactly. But we'll do our best to protect you".

He was telling the truth. Or at least, he believed he was. Reggie felt her emotions rise up and threaten to choke her, when she really began to understand what her "options" were.

One, she could sit here in this hotel room, stubbornly denying that things that went bump in the night were real, though she _knew_ damn well that they were. That technically, she was, to some degree, one herself. She could sit here terrified and wondering until she woke up from this nightmare or something dark and malevolent killed her. Or, she could accept that this was real. That evil was real, that it had killed her Grandmother, and that now, it was coming for her. And she could do something about it. She looked up into Dean's eyes. Her second option was simple, she could trust Sam and Dean Winchester.

Quite frankly, option one was less frightening.

Dean couldn't have said who was more surprised, him or Reggie, when after sitting silently for another few moments, she stood up sharply, and said, "Alright. I believe you. Let's go!"

"Just like that?" Dean could hardly believe it, he'd been preparing himself to use bodily force.

"I guess so" replied Reggie. "Look, I don't know exactly what the protocol for this kind of situation is, so let's just get on with it alright". She stopped short on her way to the door,

"This….thing"

"Demon" Dean provided helpfully.

"Right" she nodded, "This demon. It's not going to hurt my friends is it? Because if it is, I can't go". Dean was shaking his head.

"No. It usually leaves other people alone. Unless they get in the way. C'mon. The sooner we get out of here, the safer they, and you, will be".

Reggie nodded and grabbed her coat. Stuffing her arms in the sleeves she led the way to the door.

The rolling wave of malice stopped her in mid stride. Reggie had never felt _evil_ before, but she knew she was feeling it now. Dean gave her a little shove from behind.

"C'mon" he prompted. Reggie fought the rising waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. It was like smelling the putrid stench of rotting flesh, only she was feeling it. The suffering of a thousand writhing souls reached out to her. She backed away from the door, pressing back against Dean. Turning, she grabbed him by the shirt.

Dean didn't know what God, or gods, were smiling on him, but he thanked them profusely anyway. Reggie's unexpected cooperation was going to make his job a whole hell of a lot easier. He bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet while she hurriedly put on her coat. He knew their little conversation hadn't taken long, but then, the demon was already on its way. Dean had no idea how much time they had. He followed Reggie to the door.

Just as she reached for the handle, she stopped dead. Dean nudged her from behind. He sure as hell hoped she wasn't having second thoughts, because he was done talking. She turned, and her eyes were filled with an almost wild terror. She grabbed him roughly,

"It's here." Her voice was barely a croak.

Shoving her aside Dean went to the door on silent feet, he peeked out the peep hole, just in time to see the body of a middle aged man collapse, as black smoke poured from his mouth. The ominous cloud slipped under the door of a room across the hall and two doors down. Grabbing Reggie's hand he headed for the balcony.

"It's checking the other two rooms down the hall" he told her in a whisper. With a gasp she tried to go back, Dean dragged her out the sliding door anyway.

"My friends" she protested.

"They'll be fine, believe me, he's not interested." Looking around quickly, Dean cursed. They were one room from the Eastern corner of the building. The impala was parked nearby, but the fire escape was next door. Dean measured the distance, it was almost eight feet. There was no way Reggie could make that jump.

"_Shit", _the softness of Dean's curse only served to increase its intensity. Reggie shivered beside him. Her heart was pounding wildly and every sense was straining, striving to detect anything that would indicate the demon's presence in the room behind her. She fought down panic.

"Stay here" Dean growled at her.

Before she knew what was happening, he'd climbed onto the balcony railing and launched himself at the fire escape. He caught the edge of the neighboring railing and pulled himself up. Reggie wanted to shriek at him, _Don't leave me alone!_ Behind her, the dark room loomed menacingly. Every nerve was screaming with anticipation, waiting for the attack to come, for the nightmare to come true. Reggie stuffed her hand in her mouth to stop from crying out.

Dean took the stairs down four at a time, vaulting over the railing as he hit the last flight, jumping the last seven feet or so to the ground. Standing beneath the balcony of her room he looked up at Reggie.

"Jump. I'll catch you".

"Are you insane?!" she hissed, looking down at him, it was easily twenty feet. The doorknob rattled behind her.

"Miss Thorpington", the male voice was light and pleasant. Clearly the demon had ascertained, by process of elimination, that this was her room. She wasn't quite sure why it was trying to maintain a veneer of normalcy, and she didn't care.

The voice, the culmination of her fears, hit her like a blow, tearing at her already frayed nerves. Tears of terror and desperation gathered in her eyes. With no other options available, she scrambled over the railing. Holding onto two of the bars, she lowered herself until she hung vertically, suspended above Dean. She was trying desperately not to scream, biting her lip until it bled.

"Miss Thorpington" the voice was more insistent. "I realize that this is irregular, but there's an emergency".

Reggie looked down between her arms at Dean. He locked his eyes on hers.

Dean hit the ground with a thud, and, not stopping for a second, heart thumping, he ran to position himself below the balcony. He looked up at Reggie, standing alone above him. In his mind's eye he saw her vanish, dragged back into the room, away from him. Another lost soul. He couldn't let it happen.

"Jump. I'll catch you" he promised.

Her hissed denial floated down to him and her head shook wildly. Then, suddenly, she jerked and looked to the room behind her. His eyes narrowed, the demon!

Reggie began climbing hurriedly over the railing until she hung suspended above him. Clearly she was more afraid of what was in that room than of the drop. Smart girl. The demon would be on them in seconds. Dean's heart began to hammer even harder, he was amazed it hadn't pounded right out of his chest. He shoved aside his own fear and looked up at Reggie, catching her golden eyes with his.

"Look" he said quietly, "I know you don't like me as well as my brother. But would I let anything happen to you? C'mon, Jump. Trust me!"

It was a demand, not a request. Reggie responded without thinking. Without taking her eyes from his, she let go.

Falling seemed to take forever, and then, _whump_ she crashed into Dean, sending them both sprawling. Her breath was hammered out of her lungs by the impact, but before she could even register what had happened, he was on his feet, pulling her up. Without a word he dragged her over to the impala, and opening the door, thrust her inside. He slid over the hood, and jumped into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life.

Reggie looked back over her shoulder. A middle aged man was stepping out onto her balcony. She gasped as he jumped to the ground. Her stomach heaved as standing, he easily snapped the twisted ruin of his left leg back into place.

Dean stepped on the gas.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: I know that was a little longer than usual between updates, and that this chap is a little short. I'm trying really hard to get the tone of this right. I promise to post again before the end of the day.

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Reggie watched the demon grow smaller, falling into the distance as the impala raced away. Still, she couldn't turn her head to face the front window. In a world where suddenly the enemy was real and he was everywhere, even the empty expanse of the back seat seemed to pose a threat. Her eyes strained until they felt like they would fall out of her head. She couldn't see the demon. Her head finally came around. Dean was flipping open his phone.

The world was spinning. Her mind was simply shutting down, unable to take in any more. Her body throbbed from the fall, her own heartbeat pounded in her ears and the edges of her vision began to grey. Suddenly, she couldn't seem to get enough air.

Dean pressed the gas pedal flat to the floorboards, reaching for his phone with one hand, and keeping one eye on Reggie. As the phone rang in his ear, he saw her stop craning her neck to look out the back window and face the front. She began to shake, her eyes were fixed on nothingness, and she began to hyper-ventilate.

"Don't quit on me now" he muttered. Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, her drove with one hand and placed the other on the back of her head. He forced it down between her knees.

"Breathe!" he commanded.

Reggie breathed.

"Dean" Sam's voice sounded over the phone.

"No time to chitchat Sammy! We need somewhere safe. Where it can't get us….Just keep breathing."

"What?" said Sam.

"Nothing" replied Dean. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"Holy ground?" said Sam.

"That's my boy. There's that little old church, not to far from the motel. Draw a circle of protection and a snare big enough for three. We'll meet you there." He hung up.

Heart in his throat, Sam rushed to throw supplies in a duffle bag and headed for the parking lot. He sure as hell hoped he remembered how to hot-wire a car.

The impala raced down the dark back roads, its two occupants silent. Reggie had regained some of her composure and Dean had let her up. She was focusing all of her remaining strength on not thinking to hard about what was going on. Numb was safe, and simple. She had a death grip on Gran's amulet. It was warm in her hand, beckoning her senses. She locked onto that feeling and closed out the world and the ongoing sequence of events that was straining her grip on sanity.

Dean's every sense was attuned to their surroundings. He remembered only to well what had happened the last time he thought he'd escaped the demon. As expected, a parked car suddenly shot out of its driveway as they passed, heading straight for the impala.

Reggie screamed.

"No this time" growled Dean, slamming on the brakes and turning the wheel sharply. The impala swerved and fishtailed, avoiding the smaller car. Dean fought to keep his car on the road. He succeeded, but cursed, when lights appeared in the rearview mirror. The other car had shot across the road and ploughed into a small tree, but it was back on the road, smashed windshield and all. Dean floored it.

The little suburban car was no match for the impala's powerful engine, but on the flat dessert roads, Dean couldn't quite get far enough ahead to shake the tail completely. He hoped to God Sam was ready for them.

Dean checked the rearview mirror again, the lights of the car tailing them were faint but persistent. He looked at Reggie, she was clutching something that hung from her neck and breathing in short, shallow gasps, but she seemed to be holding it together. Dean saw the sign for the city limits flash by, _almost there_. The blood rushed hotly in his veins, his heart pounding and breath heaving as he anticipated the confrontation with his mortal enemy.

The outline of an old bell tower came into view, a black shape against an indigo sky, made unnaturally brighter by the many lights of Las Vegas in the distance. The impala pulled into a deserted little lot beside a smart looking red Honda Civic, Sam stood in the doorway of the church. Dean jumped out of the car and ran around the passenger side. Reggie looked up at him when he opened the door. He hoped she wasn't going to faint, though, in the long run, maybe that would be easier.

Dean's urgency rolled over Reggie in unrelenting waves, and she drew energy from it. She accepted his hand and allowed him to hustle her into the church. Just inside the door the old pews had been shoved aside. Sam had been busy.

There were two circles. One inside the other, traced in chalk and overlaid with salt. The space between the larger and smaller circle was filled with protective symbols. Some she recognized: the cross of Saint George, the evil eye, the pentagram, others were alien. Inside the protective perimeter was a second circle, which contained another large pentagram and more strange symbols.

"Stand inside the pentagram" Sam told her quietly, "Don't scuff the salt".

Reggie did as he told her. Tension made the air almost to thick to breathe. The sound of tires on gravel announced the arrival of the demon. Reggie's breath caught in her throat. Both brothers jumped into the pentagram with her, Sam behind, Dean in front. They both held shot guns. Fat lot of good that would do them.

On some level, Reggie was amazed at her own calm. Shouldn't she be hysterical, or screaming, or something. Gravel crunched under feet of the demon's host as he approached the church. Surprisingly, standing sandwiched between the Winchester brothers, she knew she wasn't as afraid as she logically should be.

She understood that both Sam and Dean thought they would be safe with all of the protections and on holy ground, but she also felt their fear, and anger. They weren't sure exactly what the demon could do. Reggie took a deep breathe, drew on the hidden reserves of strength built up over a lifetime of adversity.

What could a demon do to her? She had lived in her own private version of hell for nineteen years, suffering not only her father's cruelty, but the knowledge that her mother and younger sister suffered as well. The truth was, Reggie's spirit had long been tempered by the years of slow torture. You dealt, or you died. Reggie had dealt. Her mother, her Gran, her other grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins, they had shown her that the light was as strong as the darkness.

_It was all about choices_. Reggie raised her eyes as the doors of the church blew off. She chose to fight. She always chose to fight.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: As promised. Hope it is everything you expected. I also just want to say quickly to everyone who has been good enough to review the story and encourage me, Thanks. And that I do try to respond to all comments, and if I haven't, I'm not ignoring you or anything. Sometims I don't get a reply link with your messages. Keep reading and enjoy!

ArtemiS

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The demon strolled casually up to the very edge of the doorway, but did not cross the threshold onto consecrated ground. Reggie tried to feel him, but found nothing but a black hole where a person should be. This host had been with the demon a long time. Whoever and whatever he had been, there was no longer anything human left.

"Honey, I'm home", sang the demon.

"Go. To. Hell" snarled Sam. Reggie was surprised, his anger far outweighed his fear. Dean was the same. His fury was blinding. Their hate tasted metallic in her mouth.

"C'mon" taunted Dean. "Come and get us you sonofabitch".

To do that, the demon would have to walk into the Devil's Snare. Dean knew there was no way it would be that stupid, but it didn't hurt to hope.

"Now Dean" said the demon, "We don't need to fight. I'm not here for your precious Sammy. No" he grinned evilly,

"Sammy's already set on his path. Sammy's destiny was sealed, from the day I took your mother". He smiled again,

"I must say I enjoyed that". His voice lowered into a hissing rasp, laced with malicious pleasure.

"Did you know that she fought? Fought me with everything that she had. Screamed for you. Her babies. Begged your father to save her." He breathed in deeply, taking a profound sensual delight in remembered suffering. And new pain. He smiled at the two men.

"But he couldn't, could he. No, Daddy ran away and left her. Just like he left you. Not man enough to face the world with out you" he was looking at Dean.

"And for what. You're not half the man your father was. He couldn't stop me, he couldn't save Sammy, and neither will you".

Reggie tried desperately to reign in the rage and pain that threatened to consume the two Winchesters. She didn't want them to do anything stupid. And then something clicked into place, something that hadn't quite registered fully before. If this was the demon who killed their mother, than it was the demon that had killed her Gran. Suddenly, all the grief and anger of that day burst through the careful boundaries that Reggie had built against those memories.

_She had stood outside her Grandmother's house and felt her die_.

She knew that even at the agonizing end, Gran had been thinking of her.Trying, despite everything, to muffle their connection, so Reggie wouldn't know the writhing agony, the searing pain, and the final, crushing moment where oblivion began. But Reggie had. At twelve years old Reggie had lost one of her dearest friends, and the only person who really understood her. She had felt her Grandmother die, felt the light of her life choked, and then extinguished by smoke and flame.

_And. It. Was. His. Fault_.

"You _BASTARD_!"

Dean barely reacted in time to grab Reggie as she darted around him and tried to launch herself at the demon.

"Hey, HEY!" he barked at her as she struggled to get away. He knew how she felt. A second ago, he'd been so torn, so eaten by animal rage, that he had nearly thrown away everything, would have tired to destroy it, not matter how futile the effort, because he could think of nothing, desire nothing, but its destruction. But something had held him back, had helped him to bind his wild rage to his will.

In his arms, Reggie was practically thrumming with furious energy.

"Ah Regina", the demon sounded delighted.

"Why don't you let her go. She is one of mine, and we never got to spend any quality time together when she was a child." He tisked,

" Not like the others."

The inhuman eyes, with thier sulfuric glow, narrowed as Dean fought to contain the wrathful girl.

"You cannot keep her from me", his eyes glowed menacingly, "I will find her. Now, later. She belongs _to me_!"

Ignoring the demon, Dean spoke quietly in Reggie's ear.

"Stop it. That's what he wants. If you step outside this circle, he's got you".

Dean voice penetrated the fog of rage that wrapped around her. Breathing harshly she nodded her understanding, and Dean released her. Reggie fell to her knees.

She wanted it to _hurt_.

She wanted it to feel what her Grandmother had felt.

For the first time in her life, Reggie reached for her gift in anger. She had never before projected feelings onto another person. She had projected them _at_ people, she had suggested, and shared, and encouraged. But this was different. She saw the white hot pain of the Winchester's in her mind's eye and snatched at it, took up the threads of her Gran's agonizing death throes and reveled in it. She focused on the demon.

_For you._ She whispered in her mind. _All for you._

She cast the net of suffering and sorrow at him, sent the throbbing anguish of it snaking around the body he had stolen, and squeezed. She realized immediately that she couldn't hurt the demon, but she could hurt the host.

The once human body began to crumple under the weight of her emotional onslaught. It couldn't remember how to be a person, but it did remember what pain felt like. Not the physical kind, which the demon spirit was able to brush aside, but the emotional agony that was so distinctly human. The demon hurried to slip free of it's collapsing body.

Dean watched in amazement as Reggie stared down the demon from her kneeling position on the floor. The thing's mouth began to contract, to work soundlessly as it clutched at its throat, its eyes began to bulge as it felt to the ground. The body withered with a scream of agony and black smoke poured from the host's mouth as the demon abandoned it. The cloud seethed menacingly for a moment, but was powerless, and finally, it fled.

Dean turned to Sam.

"What in the hell was that", he demanded.

Sam shook his head.

Looking up at them, Reggie felt exhausted and sick. She didn't want to think or feel, or _be_ anymore. _Now would be a really good time to pass out._ And she did.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Thanks for the good reviews guys. I'm afraid this chapter spells the end for any Sam/Reggie shippers out there. Enjoy.

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"Reggie, Reggie, Regina", Sam's tired voice sounded persistently in Reggie's ear. She tried to ignore it.

"Reggie, wake up. Just for a second. You don't want Camille to be worried do you?"

That was enough to rouse her slightly.

Sam wavered before her eyes, "I just need you to write down her phone number".

The effort of even that was almost too much. She scratched down the numbers blindly and fell back into unconsciousness.

The next time Reggie awoke, Sam's voice was once again the first thing she heard. She was lying in a strange bed, with a hideous day-glow orange comforter thrown over her. Sam and Dean were arguing.

"She's barely had any rest" said Sam.

"She's had more than either of us" responded Dean.

"You're underestimating her. And we need some answers. You heard the demon. He's not going to stop looking for her. I'm going to the car to get some stuff. She'd rather see your face first thing anyway."

_Well he's right about that_. Thought Reggie scathingly, annoyed at Dean's insensitivity. She was _tired_. What the hell did he want form her! They were the ones who knew all about the damn demon. Not her.

When Sam reached the bedside, he was surprised to see that Reggie's eyes were already open. She looked tired, but her gaze was steady when she looked at him. Sam felt guilty. Here was another person dragged from the comfort of their everyday life because of him. Just because he and Dean couldn't live normally, didn't mean that they had the right to interfere in the lives of those who could.

He started when Reggie grabbed his hand. She fixed him with her golden stare,

"This is not your fault Sam. If it weren't for you two, the demon would have gotten me".

Whatever that might mean. She didn't want to think about it. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Sam crouched down so their faces were on the same level.

Her words touched him. Partly because she made him believe them, and party because, in spite of everything, _she_ was trying to make _him_ feel better.

"Thanks" he said it softly, raising a hand to touch her face. "You're one hell of a girl".

Reggie gulped, Sam was getting that energy. The kind that said, _I'm gonna kiss you now_. But she couldn't. Wouldn't. After all that had happened she already felt like she was falling apart on the inside. So much that was new, so much that was frightening, so much that was impossible, uncertain. She blocked it off. It wasn't hard to do. The key was to deliberately act like nothing was happening. That there was no tingle of awareness, no super-charged current in the air. Without changing their intimate position, Reggie withdrew.

"Oh, I don't know" she said mildly. "I'm pretty sure I fainted. Yeah, I'm a real toughie".

Sam was taken aback as he looked into her clear, calm, detached, eyes. Whatever he was feeling, obviously he was the only one participating in this little "moment".

Reggie felt him respond to her emotional absence and slide away from her. _Click_, went Sam into the harmless category. Reggie sighed, the problem was, once they went in, they couldn't come out.

She gave herself a second to be sorry for that. Sam was a sweet, strong person, but the walls around her were too thick. Trust him with her life, sure. Trust him with her heart. No chance. And there was the problem. There was no middle ground for her. The decision had to be made that quickly. She couldn't wait to see what happened. If a person got their hooks into her, she'd be lost, and she'd never find her way back out, no matter what they were or what they did. Didn't she still love her father in spite of everything. No, she would regret Sam, but not enough to make her take that risk.

"Don't mind me" said Dean from the doorway.

Sam shot to his feet. Reggie stayed where she was and threw Dean a withering look.

"Here" walking into the room Dean tossed something at each of them. Reggie picked hers up off the bed. It was a small cloth pouch on a leather thong. She raised it to her nose and sniffed. It smelled musty and a bit sour.

"Put them on" ordered Dean, one of the small pouches already hung about his neck.

"What are they?" asked Reggie.

"They should help to keep the demon from tracking us".

And there it was; the blunt truth of reality, courtesy of Dean Winchester, intruding on her again. And she'd been doing such a good job of not thinking about it to much.

"Where'd you get these?" asked Sam sliding his on. "Last I checked, you couldn't do this sort of hoodoo".

"Missouri made them for me" answered Dean.

"Sent them down last week". He shrugged at Sam's speculative look. Ever since their little conversation at the Inn, Dean had been taking every precaution to make sure he never had to keep the promise he had made to his brother.

"I've got a whole sack of them in the car".

He looked at Reggie, she sighed and slid the thong over her head. So what, this was her life now? Hoodoo and demons. What the hell did they do next?

Dean was asking himself the same question. The immediate answer seemed obvious, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"So now what?" Sam was looking at him expectantly, he wasn't really asking a question.

"No Sam".

"No what?" asked Reggie, sensing the tension between the two men.

"What else are we going to do? You said it yourself. He's not going to stop coming after her. What are we supposed to do? Leave her to fend for herself?!"

Dean ran his hands through his hair.

"There has to be another way".

"Oh yeah?" said Sam, "Name it. I am _not_ letting her wind up like Ava Dean!"

Reggie was getting tired of being discussed as though she weren't in the room.

"Excuse me" she snapped, "But who the hell is Ava, what happened to her, and what are you two talking about?"

Sam took a deep breath, "We have to get you away from the demon. You have to come with us".

Reggie gawked at him, she could hardly believe it, but she was with Dean on this one. "No".

"It won't stop looking for you Reggie. It _will_ find you".

Reggie was shaking her head in denial. They were insane, this wasn't happening. She couldn't, she wouldn't. This was not her life, this was not real, it couldn't be.

Dean was still glaring at Sam, "We don't even know why the damn thing is after her. You said she wasn't one of the psychics".

"Well, you heard what the demon said, he said he didn't get to spend time with her when she was little…"

"You said she didn't get the headaches!"

Sam threw up his hands, "You're the one who keeps saying the pattern isn't that consistent. Or, maybe she lied".

That snapped Reggie back into the present.

"I _did not_ lie!" she cried angrily.

Sam held out his hands in apology, "It's just that, it wouldn't be so strange if you did. I mean, most people don't admit that they can do weird things to perfect strangers just because they ask. You don't right, I mean you didn't, start getting weird headaches about a year ago?".

"I already told you, _NO!"_

"Okay" said Sam, "I'm sorry, we have to be sure", he backed off.

But now Dean was looking at Reggie suspiciously, as if something had just occurred to him. How had she known about the bouncer and mystery man at the roadhouse? Why had she been so quick to believe him about the demon? How had she known it was in the hall, and _what the hell had happened in that church_?!

"And you don't have any…powers?" Dean asked.

Reggie paused, Sam tried to encourage her. "I have visions. I know others who are telekinetic, telepathic…you know, psychic".

"I'm not a psychic" said Reggie firmly; Dean was still watching her,

"I mean, I can't read minds or anything", Sam was nodding and looking away. She took a deep breath, she had _never_ told anyone about her gift before.

"But I _can_ read feelings".

"What?" said Sam, snapping back to look at her.

Reggie sat on the bed, twisting her hands in her lap, "I'm…I guess I'm what you'd call, empathic. I can feel what you feel", she finished lamely.

Sam was surprised and worried.

Dean was furious. She had known he would be. He was so private, all those emotions locked up so tightly. Her gift made him feel vulnerable, and violated.

"Try not to be angry Dean..." she began.

He didn't like it, not one little bit. It was worse, far worse, than having someone know what you thought. She knew when he was afraid, when he was hurting…….."How the hell do you know I'm angry!" he roared.

Reggie winced. "Volume is usually a good indicator".

"You stay out of my….." Dean stuttered to a halt. Out of what? His head? Heart?

Reggie glared at him. "I don't go poking into people I don't know, you know" she snapped.

"I'm not some sort of extrasensory voyeur. It's kind of difficult to ignore though, when you're practically screaming at me!" She spread her hands and included Sam in her look,

"You both project something awful. I couldn't ignore it if I tried!"

"Try harder" snapped Dean. Reggie sighed.

"I'll do my best".

Sam came to sit beside her. "And your…abilities, they didn't start to manifest about a year ago?"

"No" Reggie looked at him strangely,

"I've had them all my life. My Gran had second sight. She taught me to use my gift" Reggie's words dwindled as she thought of her Grandmother, the pain of her death once again made fresh in her mind.

"Damnit!"

Sam was looking at Dean triumphantly. "I told you. He's after her. She _is_ one of the psychics, but she's really different from the rest of us. It might mean something important. We _have _to protect her".

Dean cursed again, and switched sides.

"C'mon, we have to get your stuff from the hotel".

"Oh no" said Reggie backing away, "I'm not going anywhere".

"Yes" said Dean in that same, determined tone from the night before, "You are".

"Reggie" said Sam softly, "You have to let us help you. You aren't safe".

She threw up her hands, "And what do you expect me to tell my friends?! My family! I can't just take off with you! Even if I wanted to!"

"So tell them that you've got it bad for Sam and that you want to spend some time getting to know him", said Dean. Reggie and Sam both swung towards him.

"You're crazy" she cried, "Do you honestly think they would believe something like that!" "No offense Sam", she added as an afterthought.

"None taken".

"So" said Dean, wiggling his fingers, "Make them believe it!"

"I already told you!" she was yelling now, insulted, "I don't use my gift that way! I don't even know if I could!"

"Then I'm sure you'll figure something else out" he said resolutely.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Okay, here we go. I'm trying really hard to make this, "girl takes off with two strange men and nobody bats an eye thing" as realistic as possible. Hope I didn't blow it.

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"Yes, that's right. I know, very Romeo and Juliet."

Reggie's voice was unnaturally bright as she spoke to Janet on Sam's cell phone.

"I know, it's crazy, but you know me, would I ever do something like this if I weren't really sure? Yeah, unhuh. No, tell Camille I'll talk to her when we get to the hotel. I know, but they have to leave now, and" she paused and plunged on,

"And I really want to do this. I need to".

At least that wasn't a total falsehood. If she didn't leave with Sam and Dean, she'd probably end up as demon fodder.

"Yes, we're coming now. No, that's okay, I'll do it. Yeah, no, I know she is. Trust Em to embrace the impulsive. Yeah, I'll see you soon". Reggie snapped the phone shut.

She'd managed to convince Emily and Janet, but Camille, she rubbed her eyes, that was a whole different story. Reggie starred out the window as the impala sped along towards the hotel. What was she going to tell Camille?

"So" said Dean from the front seat. "What's the story? A midnight rendezvous, and now the two of you can't keep your hands off each other?" He received a deadly glare from both Sam and Reggie.

"Something like that. He came to the balcony and"

"Swept you off your feet?" guessed Dean.

She just glared and Dean had the termidity to chuckle. Sam was silent.

Camille sat quietly on the bed as she watched Reggie pack. Her friend moved around the room purposefully, gathering things together, slipping her shampoo and conditioner into plastic bags to guard against leaks. She tried again to reason with Reggie.

"C'mon. Do you think I'm stupid? What is really going on here?"

Reggie sighed. She _hated_ lying to Camille, Camille was the one person in the world who knew the truth about her. Well, almost the truth. And lying to Cami was hard, from a strictly logistical point of view. She'd listened to Reggie's "balcony, midnight, and starry skies" story, and hadn't bought it for a second.

"I'm telling you Cami, I like him. He's special. No one has ever made me feel like this". The words sounded foolish and clichéd. Clearly Camille thought so too.

"Nope, no good, try again".

Camille couldn't understand why Reggie was lying to her. She knew that she was. What did Sam, or, to Camille's way of thinking, more likely Dean, have on Reggie that would make her do something like this? And that was the only thing she could come up with, as nuts as it seemed, was some kind of blackmail. She knew damn well how Reggie felt about men, and she knew how Reggie felt about men like Dean Winchester. Those were the kind of feelings it took a lifetime to overcome, not 24 hours and a little moonlight. She was feeling a bit panicky.

Camille was also one of the few people who understood the core of iron that Reggie's gentle exterior concealed. If Reggie didn't want to tell her, she wouldn't, and if she thought she needed to do this, especially if she thought she was protecting someone, Camille knew she'd never talk her out of it.

"Please" she begged her friend. "Just tell me why. I promise I won't interfere".

Reggie stopped folding her sweaters, and sat by Cami on the bed. Her friend's distress was like a dagger in her heart. She couldn't leave until she'd found some way to ease it. She gave up the pretense. She couldn't tell Cami the truth, but she could stop lying.

She shook her head. "Cami please. Try to understand. I _have_ to do this. Dean and Sam aren't forcing me to do anything I don't want to, I promise you".

"Then tell me why!" Cami insisted. Reggie hung her head, but only said,

"Cami, you _have_ to trust me."

Cami looked into her friend's earnest face. Whatever else, Reggie was not enjoying lying to her. Cami sighed. That was the problem with Reggie. All of her friendships, no matter how close, were ultimately hindered by one thing. You trusted her, completely. But she didn't always trust you.

"Alright" Reggie's pained eyes finally got the best of her.

"I'll go along with this insanity." She held up a hand as Reggie began to smile in relief.

"But only for now. If you aren't back by the end of spring break, I swear to God I'm calling the cops. And I want a phone call every day. _Every day!_ You hear me!"

"Yes M'am" Reggie snapped off a salute.

"This is not funny Reggie. I'm scared for you". Reggie put her arms around her friend. _Yeah_ she thought silently, _I'm scared for me too._

Milo went to lift Reggie's bag into the trunk of the impala, but Dean cut him off.

"Why don't you let me do that" he said, stepping quickly into the other man's path, blocking his way to the trunk.

"The old gal, she can be a bit sticky" he took his keys from his pocket, stuck them in the lock and made a show of jimmying them around, before allowing the trunk to pop open, keeping one hand on it so it wouldn't spring up.

He couldn't risk the other man getting a glimpse of something he shouldn't. The hidden catch on the trunk's false bottom wasn't working properly, and Dean hadn't had a chance to fix it. This whole little leave-taking soap opera had already taken them way longer than he had hoped. Reggie's friends were well and truly reluctant to let her throw herself into the power of the big, bad Winchester brothers. He could only imagine what would happen if they should discover he had a trunk full of assorted weapons, from bowie knives to .45's, to crossbows. The red-head would probably shoot him with one of his own guns, he looked up into cold brown eyes, if Cami didn't get to him first. She was already convinced he was some sort of psychopath or serial killer.

Where the hell was Sam! He was the boy-toy decoy. How come he had to face down the disapproving looks and hostile stares? Speak of the devil, Dean glared at his brother as he came strolling out of the hotel, one arm around Reggie's waist in a conspicuous show of affection. He was laughing with Janet and Emily.

Dean beckoned him over, giving the other girls a quick, fake smile. As soon as Sam was in his reach, Dean grabbed him and turned away.

"Don't you _ever_ leave me alone with these people!" he snapped. Sam looked shocked at his vehemence.

"Dude, you're afraid a couple of collage sophomores?" he asked incredulously.

"Collage sophomores my ass" he retorted.

"Camille would stab me as soon as look at me, and Milo and Colin have been trying to work out how to dump the body! I dunno why they have a problem with me. You're the one who's stealing away their precious Reggie!"

"Well" said Sam, "You are a little lacking in social skills".

Dean looked hurt, "Dude, that's harsh. I'm perfectly social".

"Yeah" said Sam, "You're perfectly social, if it's got a D-cup bra and blond hair. Face it Dean. When you 'socialize' you don't usually use your mouth for talking". Dean looked insulted,

"Dude, I am so not into blondes". Sam rolled his eyes.

"You're into anything with legs and a pulse".

"Breasts Sam." He corrected, "Anything with _breasts_ and a pulse. And what's wrong with that?" Sam looked disgusted.

"C'mon, this is your last chance to make a good impression".

"Can't I just wait by the car?" Dean groaned.

"No" said Sam, dragging him back towards where Reggie and her friends huddled together in a tight knot, exchanging hugs and kisses. The brothers approached, and Reggie looked up at them. She smiled tightly.

"I'll just get the last of my bags, Colin, Milo, you wanna give me a hand?", her right arm was still numb from the last night's fall. _God, was it only last night_.

Dean gaped at her, "You have _more_ _bags_?" The large green suitcase he had loaded into the trunk of the impala was nearly as tall as she was and weighed about seventy pounds. She shot him the withering look that was beginning to be familiar.

"That's right Dean, more". She stomped into the hotel.

"Dean!" snapped Sam. The eyes of all three girls, who had remained outside with them, were fixed on him.

"Sorry" he muttered.

Janet stepped forward,

"There's just one thing we'd like to say" she took a deep breath, and looked at Sam,

"If you hurt Reggie, in any way" Emily piped up,

"There won't be anywhere you can hide. That girl is loved more dearly, by more people than you could possibly imagine. When we get done with you, there won't be enough to scrape off the pavement and burry". They were deadly serious, even the usually playful Emily's eyes were hard as they bored into Sam. Camille said nothing, but _she,_ was glaring at Dean.

Sam returned their stares, "I promise I'll take good care of her". Camille snorted,

"Honey" she looked at Sam, "You don't take care of Reggie. She takes care of you" she looked at Dean again, and suddenly, she smiled. It was just a little bit nasty.

Reggie's earlier sharpness had given her reason to revaluate the situation. Oh she still wasn't happy, but, she knew Reggie better than anyone. Reggie would have avoided Dean if she could, but if she couldn't….when push came to shove, Reggie wouldn't back down an inch. The man had no idea what he was up against.

Dean was disgusted with himself for wanting to cower under the force of Camille's stare, her wicked smile made him uneasy. He prepared for the worst as she walked towards him. Reggie came out of the hotel, Camille paused beside him,

"Good luck Indiana, you are so going to need it".

And, after dropping that little bomb, she walked off to embrace her friend.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: You guys are always saying you like how quickly I update, well I love how quickly and frequently you review. Thanks. More fuel for the fire.

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Reggie slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom in the cool light of dawn. She was exhausted, but she had business to take care of. The kind she wanted neither of the Winchesters to witness. Reggie hauled her portable waxing pot out of her bag and set it on the bathroom counter to heat. Living with Sam and Dean on the road had presented all manner of unforeseen problems, and they'd only been at it three days. Her mind wandered back, as she remembered.

After leaving her friends at the motel, Reggie, still smarting from yet another falsehood filled phone call, this time to her mother, to say that she and the gang had decided to stay in California for a little longer than original planned, had sat in the back seat of the impala and stared silently out the window. As the car turned onto the interstate heading north, she looked at Dean in the rear view mirror.

"Where are we going?"

"A little place called away", had come the vauge answer.

"What does that mean?" she'd demanded irritably.

He looked over his shoulder, "It means we run. As fast and as far from here as we can get. It doesn't really matter where." He looked at Sam,

"I was thinking maybe the old cabin in Wisconsin".

Sam shrugged. It was certainly remote enough.

"Like you said. It doesn't much matter, as long as it's away".

It was a little more than 1800 miles to Wisconsin. They drove for almost thirty hours straight, stopping occasionally for food and a quick stretch, Sam taking over for Dean intermittently, so the other man could catch a quick catnap. Still exhausted from the events of the previous day, Reggie slept most of the way; she could pretty much stretch out along the impala's back seat. When she wasn't sleeping, she spoke to Sam. She knew it was petty, but she mostly ignored Dean, and he seemed to do his best to return the favour.

She and Sam had talked about their families. Sam had told her about Jessica, about their father. And Reggie told him about her large, dysfunctional family, which included a brood of cousins of all ages, uncles, aunts, great-aunts, great-uncles, grandparents, her mother and, her little sister Abby. Dean listened to the two of them talk, and wondered what it would be like to have that many people to love, to love you. He also noted, perhaps because his father had played such a vital role in his own life, that Reggie almost never mentioned hers.

Dean was tired, his body had had little time to recover from the abuse of the past few days. He spent his time listening to the quiet, slightly husky timbre of Reggie's voice as words wove back and forth in the air between her and Sam. And her laugh. Unlike a lot of girls, Reggie didn't have the kind of high giggle that irritated him, her laugh was a full throaty chuckle that warmed the air. He was amazed at her resilience. He'd been doing this most of his life. He hadn't _learned_ to shut out the fear and uncertainty, it was just something he had always done, but she, she'd only discovered the existence of demons two days ago, and yet she could go on.

She seemed to want to avoid him, as if that was possible, in the confines of the impala, but he did his best to oblige. A, because technically, he'd been the one to drag her into all of this, and B, because the reality of her gift, the knowing look in her eyes, made him uneasy. And even more than that, the fact that knowing whatever it was she knew, seemed to make her wary of him. He tried to condition himself to project _blank_, when he was around her. It didn't really matter if it worked or not, it made him feel better. Around the impala, day was fading into night. Sam was asleep beside him, and Dean reflected on their present circumstances. He didn't like the whole situation, in fact, he'd even go so far as to say it sucked, out loud. But there was nothing he could do.

He looked into the back seat where his newest charge was stretched out, sleeping. He kept his promises, he'd said he wouldn't let anything happen to her. If the damn demon wanted her, Dean would give him one hell of a fight. Thinking about the demon actually made Dean feel better. That was easy. Him bad. And well, that was the kind of problem Dean had been born and raised to solve. If it was bad, he killed it. Period. It was who he was. He didn't know how, he didn't know when, but he knew that he would.

Dean began to hum quietly, his deep, mellow voice occasionally breaking the silence, as he entertained himself with Metallica's "Wherever I May Roam". Lying quietly in the back seat, Reggie lay awake, listening. When they finally crossed the state border into Wisconsin, it was snowing, and the little motel they stopped at was made almost picturesque by a deep white blanket. Almost.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: I know that last update was kind of short, so I thought I woul try to get this next bit up before I went to bed. Happy Reading.

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Tired, dirty and stiff, the three travelers trooped into the room Dean rented with his fake credit card. He had felt Reggie's eyes boring a hole in the back of his skull as he calmly signed his name, Jacob Jones. But she hadn't said a word. It was late. Dean took the first shower and slipped out to pick them up some dinner before they all turned in for the night. When he arrived back at the room he came through the door carrying two large MacDonald's bags, keys clamped in his teeth, to find Sam sitting on the far bed, his back against the headboard, starring at Reggie's tree pendant sitting in his palm. His hair was wet and he was wearing fresh track pants and a tee shirt.

The shower was running in the bathroom.

Reggie had taken her entire overnight bag in with her. She would die if she forgot something and had to ask one of the Winchesters to get it for her while she was dripping wet. She'd lost all semblance of a normal life, if she'd ever had one, but she still had her pride.

Dean tossed Sam a burger, "How long's she been in there?" he asked.

Sam snagged the burger from the air with a lazy swipe of his long arm,

"Not long".

Dean wiggled his eyebrows at him, "Wonder what she'll be wearing when she comes out?"

Sam gave him that long-suffering look,

"I dunno, pajamas?" he suggested with soft sarcasm, but secretly, he was glad to see his brother obviously feeling better.

As if on cue, the shower shut off. There was a brief flurry of activity on the other side of the door. Regardless of what Sam said, at the sound of the turning knob, both brothers had their eyes glued to the door. It swung open, revealing Reggie.

Dean starred at her. A pair of pink flannel pants decorated with pudgy penguins was complimented by a long-sleeved, crew-necked cotton tee shirt with a pink torso and black arms, adorned with the same penguin. It waved happily at Dean, the sparkly caption above its head read "CHILLIN'" in black block letters. The only bare skin was on her hands, neck and face, even her feet were covered by thick black socks with pink polka-dots.

"Pink flannel and penguins! Really?" demanded Dean, not bothering to hide his obvious disappointment.

Reggie looked at the two expectant faces, Sam ducked his eyes quickly, but Dean was still staring, an indignant look on his face, as if she'd cheated him out of something.

And there it was. The problem with traveling in such close confines with Dean Winchester.

Dean wasn't going to be slotted or shunted anywhere. Dean was going to be Dean, no matter what. That meant a constant, nagging, _awareness_, and an endless stream of speculative looks and innuendo. Dean was _never_ going to go in the 'harmless' category. Normally, Reggie would have simply ignored or avoided Dean, but the situation wasn't normal, and she'd be damned if she was going to let him get away with it. Her hands settled on her hips.

"It's Wisconsin in the middle of February. What were you expecting, silk and lace?!"

Dean raised his eyebrows, "I wouldn't have minded" he assured her, unabashed.

His tone made her shiver. That, she decided to ignore.

Sam looked up, "Dean brought food".

Reggie eyed the greasy bag as she walked out into the room they were sharing.

"I don't really like MacDonald's" she didn't want to be rude though, so she scrounged up a small smile,

"Thanks, but I'll pass. What's for breakfast?"

Dean looked at her, "Probably MacDonald's" he drawled.

"I'll still pass", Reggie headed for the bed, determined to climb in and forget about Dean. She stopped in mid-stride. Of course, there were only two beds. And how, oh how, had she managed to overlook that little detail! Normally she would have been fretting about such an obvious threat of forced intimacy all day. She must have been more tired than she thought. She tried not to feel trapped. It was such a gross over-reaction to a very minor glitch.

Seeing her look, Sam jumped up,

"S'okay, I'll sleep on the floor", Reggie looked at Dean, he made no such offer, but rather grinned suggestively. She gritted her teeth,

"No Sam, that's alright. We can share. We're both adults" it was an equation Dean was deliberately left out of.

Dean just laughed, "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. He kicks".

Whistling, Dean headed into the bathroom.

Reggie crawled into bed beside Sam and tried to force her body to relax, one muscle at a time. Her meticulously laid out process, whereby she approached intimacy with slow, measured steps, was blown all to hell by the current situation. She'd been back pedaling steadily with Dean, keeping her distance, even the air around him was charged with the force of his presence. But it looked like with Sam, she was just going to have to suck it up and deal. _It's alright. _She told herself, _Stop thinking so much. Sam is harmless, remember_. Reggie closed her eyes and tried to go to sleep. Knowing she wouldn't.

The second day, and night, were much the same.

Except for the bruises.

Reggie looked down at a discoloured yellow patch of skin on her arm. Sam didn't just kick, he thrashed, and flailed and writhed, and that was to say nothing of what went on emotionally. Reggie had been busily building walls to cut the Winchesters off from her gift since Dean's outburst. But what went on inside Sam at night was too big, and too painful, to ignore. So instead of sleeping, Reggie lay awake in the dark, trying to ease away some of his pain and avoid his flailing limbs.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Just want to say thanks again for all the reviews. Are you guys getting my replies? Anyway, more updates for my pretties.

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Now, three days after they had left California, Dean had changed his mind about Wisconsin and was heading East, Reggie stood in the dark and prepared to wax her legs.

Sure it was crazy, and silly and well, vain, and slightly ridiculous considering that they were fleeing for their lives from an unseen supernatural foe. But be damned if either Winchester was going to catch her with hairy legs. She supposed she could have just shaved, but the abrasion of the razor chaffed her sensitive skin something awful, it didn't last as long, and Godamnit!, it was normal. She knew she was clinging to a piece of a life that didn't really exist anymore, but since the future had absolutely no whisper of form or shape, since there was no way to prepare or anticipate, she would stick to the vestiges of what she had known. So, she had gotten up as quietly as possible, and crept into the bathroom, to engage in her ritual of normalcy in private. Sighing, Reggie propped her leg on the edge of the bath tub and applied the first layer of hot wax. She let out a little gasp,

_OH! Too hot, _she cried silently, sucking in her breath.

Dean's eyes opened the moment Reggie's feet hit the floor. He hadn't yet adjusted to the point where she was catalogued into the auto-scan part of his brain that monitored the world while he slept. She still blipped on his radar every time she so much as rolled over. He hoped that wouldn't last much longer. She wasn't sleeping well, which hed could only blame on Sam, and for now, if she wasn't sleeping, he wasn't sleeping. He listened as she grabbed her bag and tiptoed covertly into the bathroom. _What the hell is she doing?_ He thought irritably to himself.

_Nevermind, none of your business. Go back to sleep_, the sensible part of his brain told him. For once, he decided to listen to it. He was just drifting of when he heard her soft gasp.

Dean came off the bed in one smooth, swift motion, knife in hand. He coasted over to the bathroom door on noiseless feet, as silent as the ghosts he hunted. He paused beside the door, listening intently. He didn't know what could have gotten by him and into the room, but he wasn't about to take any chances. The familiar zing of adrenaline slid along his veins. His eyes narrowed and a trickle of fear skimmed down his spine. Whatever was in there with Reggie, it sounded like it was hurting her. There was a scuffing sound, and a muffled cry.

Dean kicked the door in.

Reggie cursed under her breath as she yanked the wax coated cloth strip from her leg.

_I'm out of practice she thought. I'm sure it never used to hurt this mu…._ The thought was cut off abruptly, erupting into a scream of alarm, as the bathroom door was smashed off its hinges.

Dean burst into the tiny room, his eyes scanning for danger. He found none. Only Reggie, her face flushed red and her eyes wide with alarm.

"Wha…What?" she cried in shock, leaping back.

"What are you doing?" she looked at the ruins of the door.

"Me" roared Dean having ascertained that she was alone and safe,

"What are you doing?! Sneaking around at the crack of dawn! Christ woman! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Reggie looked at Sam, who had come running at the sound of her scream, and Dean, mortified. Both men were wide eyed and wound tight with undiffused adrenaline. Sam slumped against the doorframe, his sickle-shaped dagger hanging limply from his hand, and Dean leaned his head against the cool tile of the wall, his hunting knife still clutched tightly in his fist, which rested above his head. Reggie's eyes widened, she couldn't help but feel the waves of receding fear, the screaming tension, as it ebbed slowly from their bodies.

Until this moment, she hadn't really understood how the Winchester's lived their lives. Always balanced on the fine, razor edge between vigilance and paranoia, where even the simplest, everyday occurrence could hold a concealed threat. They didn't have the luxury of supposing it was something normal, or just letting it go. When things went bump in the night, they didn't turn on the light, they waited silently in the dark, hunters stalking their prey. They knew only to well that nightmares were real.

"I'm sorry", she apologized.

"It's alright" said Sam blearily. "What were you doing?"

Reggie blushed furiously, "Nothing" she insisted.

"Nothing?" demanded Dean incredulously.

She couldn't look at him. But he'd already seen the evidence.

As long as he lived, he would never understand women. This one had gotten up, in what was practically the middle of the night, to inflict a form of self torture. He shook his head, and people said he was crazy.

"Well" he said irritably, knowing the fissions of residual adrenaline humming through his body would never let him get back to sleep.

"We may as well get an early start".

Reggie and the Winchester brothers stood in line for breakfast….at MacDonald's. Reggie's eyes scanned the menu, looking for something she considered remotely edible. Maybe yogurt parfait. In front of her, Dean moved up to the counter. She listened in silent revulsion as both brothers ordered McGriddles, and coffee. Dean turned to her,

"What do you want in your coffee?" he asked.

"I don't drink coffee".

"What do you mean you don't drink coffee?" he sounded stunned.

She shrugged. "I'll drink a Mochachino" she offered.

"What in the hell is a Mochachino?" he demanded.

Sam looked at him, "Dude, what world do you live in?"

Dean glared at him, still surly from their early morning wakeup call.

"The real one" he snapped,

"Where coffee is coffee, and when things go bump in the night, it's something normal, like a wraith or a ghoul, and I kill it". Sweeping his bag from the counter, he stalked out the door.

Reggie watched him go,

"So…Has he always been a morning person?"

Sam grinned, despite her earlier embarrassment, she wasn't the least bit impressed with his brother's outburst,

"Oh yeah", he chuckled.

They took their time finishing with their food. Reggie ordered her yogurt and a green tea. Sam held the door open for her as they walked out. Dean scowled at them from behind the wheel of the impala, she just smiled sweetly.

That had been almost a week ago.

And life had only continued to become more complicated. It had been seven days, and Reggie had been forced to sever the last of her ties with the world she had known.

She'd had to call the University of Rochester, and tell them that she needed to request a deferral of her position in their Medieval PhD program. She told them there had been a death in the family, and sent them a copy of a death certificate for Elaine Thorpington, her paternal grandmother. She didn't ask Dean where he had gotten the false document, she'd accepted it mutely and done what needed to be done. But even that, had been nothing compared to the lies she told her mother.

Her voice had been bright but apologetic, and her face like stone, when she'd told Kristen Thorpington that she couldn't make it home for a visit before the end of spring break. She'd hung up, unshed tears burning in the back of her throat, and wondered if she would ever see her mother again. Shaking herself, she turned to more important matters. What she had to make sure of was that, regardless of what was really happening to her, as far as her mother was concerned, Reggie had to appear to be safe, happy, and in New York. She took a deep breath, there was one more call to make, to ensure that her mother wouldn't worry.

She punched the numbers slowly into the phone, as she had done every day, for the past nine days, just like she had promised.

Camille picked up on the first ring.

"Cami?"

"Who else?" came the reply.

"You'd better be calling me to say that you're downstairs and waiting to be let into the building".

Reggie swallowed, hard, she would give anything to say that, and everything if it could be true.

"No Cami. I'm not coming home".

"Reggie, that's it! I am calling the police! This is ridiculous. You won't even tell me where you are!" There were tears in Cami's voice.

"Please Cami. I need you to do something for me", the desperate quality of Reggie's voice stopped Camille mid-tirade.

Reggie could hear Cami's ragged breathing as it filled the silent airwaves. She was afraid.

"Cami, I want you to pick up my mail. And let me know about anything that is from my mother or grandparents or anything okay".

"You want me to help you lie to your Mother!" Cami was yelling, she never yelled.

Reggie winced, "Please Cami, please. I don't want her to worry".

"_I'm_ worried! No, I'm terrified! Where are you? What's happening? Why aren't you coming back?"

"Cami, I have never asked you for anything", it was a card Reggie hated to play.

"Don't Reggie, don't make me".

"I'm sorry Cami. I'll still call every day. You don't have to worry. I'm" she paused, "I'm safe with Sam and Dean".

Cami's jagged breathing said that she was crying.

"Okay Reggie. For you".

"Thank you" Reggie whispered. "I love you".

Cami felt like she was saying goodbye, "I love you too. Promise me you will come home".

Reggie gulped, "I can't".

She hung up, and laying her head on her knees, she allowed the silent tears to slide down her face.

It was the only time Dean had seen Reggie cry. She hadn't cried when she'd jumped from the balcony, she hadn't cried when she'd faced the demon in the church, and even now, she didn't make a sound. No, he realized, Reggie had never once cried for herself. Even now, it was only in reaction to her friend's pain, pain that he knew she felt responsible for, that she let the tears come. He looked at Sam, there was nothing either of them could say, so they drove on in silence.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: Not very long I know, I'm working on polishing up a more substantial chunk for tomorrow. Enjoy.

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Day 11.

Reggie awoke to the bright sting of full sunlight in her eyes. It was late morning. She wondered what was going on. Usually they were up, packed, and gone before the sun poked its head over the horizon. Back on the road to nowhere.

She could feel Sam's, and especially Dean's, frustration. The aimless wandering was currently their only defense against the demon. And it was making him crazy. Reggie understood that Dean was a man used to having a purpose. He had a job to do, and her presence was interfering with that. His whole sense of self was wrapped up in doing. And she understood what Dean did, Dean was a protector.

She had managed to smoother her connection to him enough that, aside from sudden, powerful surges of emotion, she could barely feel him. But what she could feel was the constant dull humming that was his worry and his vigilance. Dean spent every waking hour of every day, thinking about other people. He thought endlessly of his brother and how to protect him, and, Reggie had been surprised to realize, her. He thought of protecting her.

She stretched, enjoying the warmth of the Alabama sunshine, and, climbing out of bed, went out to find Sam and Dean and greet the day. She stepped out of the room, blinking, and saw the two tall forms of the Winchester brothers, black outlines against the bright light. They were sparring in the small grassy clearing beside the motel parking lot. Watching the two of them made her think of her own younger sister. Abby.

She sighed, Cami would help her keep tabs on the baby, their younger sisters shared an apartment in New York. Reggie wanted to call Abby herself, but she didn't want to lie, and besides, Abby would go ballistic if she thought Reggie was checking up on her. Reggie sat down on a little bench and smiled, as the large, stripped, tabby cat that belonged to the owners trotted over to strop against her legs with an insistent "merrrow".

"Hello your Laziness" she said, and hauled him into her lap, settling in to watch the show.

In the clearing, Dean watched Reggie emerge out of the corner of his eye. After Reggie's difficult conversations with her mother and Cami, both brothers had agreed that she could use a short break from their constant life on the road. And, there was something else interesting in Cullman, Alabama, and it was the focus of a heated debate between the two men as they exchanged blows.

"No", snapped Dean, as he blocked Sam's left jab. Hooking onto his brother's striking arm with his own left, and reaching across simultaneously to grab Sam's right wrist, Dean kicked Sam's feet out from under him, using the leverage of his blocking arm and hand to spin and slam his younger brother to the ground.

Sam's breath whooshed out as he crashed into the soft loam. He could not believe how stubborn Dean was being about this. Usually Dean was the gung-ho one, and Sam knew his brother was chaffing to get back on the job.

"Why not?" he demanded, reversing Dean's grip on his forearm, and using the power of his long legs to thrust his brother from his kneeling position above him and send him flying over his head.

Dean rolled quickly to his feet, and the two faced off once more.

"Because" he said, in between ducking and bobbing around the combination of kicks and punches Sam launched at him.

"We can't" dart left, "risk leaving", block right, "Reggie", jab right, "alone."

His left cross connected with Sam's jaw, knocking the taller man back a few steps.

Sam shook his head,

"So we", kick right, "take" duck _low_, "her with", exploit that opening, "us."

Sam popped up from his low crouch and slammed his elbow into Dean's side, left exposed by his brother's failed side kick. Dean grunted, but didn't give way, rather taking advantage of Sam's close proximity, and locking his arm around Sam's neck.

"And that's supposed to be safe?"

Sam thrashed in Dean's grip, but while Sam's long body was limber and sinewy, Dean was broader of shoulder, and had a more heavily muscled build.

"It's just a couple of Will'O the Whisps Dean," he panted,

"It's not like we're talking werewolves here." He jerked his head back sharply, into Dean's chin, and the vise-like grip relaxed for a split second, just long enough for Sam to slip away.

"And besides" the two brothers circled each other warily,

"It's kind of like you said when we were looking for Dad."

Dean lashed out with his right leg, and Sam jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blow.

"There isn't much we can do to protect Reggie right now, other than what we're doing. We _are_ going to find a more permanent solution...",

he hurled himself at his brother, grunting at the impact as they collided with the ground. He tried to get a grip on Dean, but his brother blocked his reaching hands and snapped up, ramming his forehead against Sam's.

Sam flopped back wards, and Dean rose to stand over him. Sam took the opportunity to finish his sentence, while the stars cleared from before his eyes.

"But until then, we have a responsibility. We'll get where we need to go eventually, but we kill every bad thing between here and there, remember?"

Dean stood back and considered Sam's words. He was hankering to get back to work. He hated knowing that there were evil things out there, running rampant, unchecked.

He looked over at Reggie where she sat on the bench. The motel's large tomcat was in her lap. The woman was a regular Doctor Doolittle. She petted every dog, cat, horse, and once, a donkey, that they came across.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her stroke the tom. Her chin rubbed against the top of its head as it stretched adoringly toward her face. Her hands stroked down its sides, kneading and caressing the ecstatic creature from the tips of its ears to the end of its tail. Her pure, sensual delight in the activity was mesmerizing. She rubbed and patted the cat until it was nothing but a purring puddle of pleasure in her arms. Dean would _never_ have believed he would be jealous of a_ cat_. Preoccupied with his thoughts, Dean never saw Sam's fist, until in connected sharply with his nose.

"_Goddamnit!"_ he landed hard on his back. Sam leaned over him,

"Man, where were you?"

Dean scissored his legs sharply and Sam collapsed beside him.

Lying side by side, they looked at the blue sky. Dean could not believe he'd lowered his guard like that. He was getting lazy.

_God_, he slapped his hand over his eyes, _I need to get laid._ And he needed to get back to work.

"Are you boys done playing?" Reggie's voice hovered above them.

Sighing, Dean climbed to his feet and hauled Sam to his.

"Fine, we'll check out the damn fairy lights."


	19. Chapter 19

Author's Note: Okay, this is another one of those chapters that make me nervous. Heads up guys, we are about to earn our M rating. I just want to say that this is not gratutitous (well, not completely). I think it's an important part of Dean's character which it is important to develop because, while it is constantly hinted at and suggestd in the show, we don't really _see_ it very much. I don't mind telling you I was blushing like crazy the whole time I was writing it. Hope it was worth it.

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Reggie smiled at the pretty brunette waitress as she slid into a window booth in the tiny, local dinner. She understood that Sam and Dean meant this to be a sort of little holiday. They were trying to make her feel better, and she was touched.

Sam slipped his lanky body into the booth next to her, and Dean sat down across from them. It bugged the hell out of him that Reggie took such pains not to touch him, or get too near. She had no such reservations about Sam. Yesterday, she'd even slept on his shoulder as they'd driven toward Cullman. Reggie had finally graduated from the back seat of the impala to the front.

The old car was loud, and she was tired of having to ask Sam to repeat every word he said a million times. It wasn't like there was a shortage of space on the wide bench seat. So, Reggie had calmoured in between the two men, and sat with her legs tucked along Sam's long ones. Dean had tried not to notice that she scooted away from him, closer to Sam.

Reggie had felt Dean's buzzing irritation on the way to the dinner, and hoped he would find a way to relieve the tension he was suffering. True to her word, she had resisted the urge to probe more deeply at his feelings, and so had no idea that she was the cause of his disquiet.

Dean looked up into the warm brown eyes of their waitress, and gave….Mel, a slow, lazy smile. Her answering grin was frankly sexual. The look she shot him over her shoulder, and the sway of her hips as she walked away, were full of invitation. _Well hell_, he thought cheerfully, _That was easy_.

Sam watched his brother work his magic on their waitress. Dean was an incurable flirt, and the waitress was doing a lot more than flirting back. Sam was grateful that Reggie had her nose stuck in the menu (she was thrilled, no MacDonald's!), and was rapturously contemplating the thought of eating real eggs! With real vegetables, and real cheese.

Dean stood up,

"I'm going to the bathroom."

Sam glared at him, but Dean just grinned shamelessly as he swaggered towards the men's room. The brunette waitress followed closely behind.

Reggie reappeared from inside the menu. Her face fell as she noticed Dean's absence. She was starving! Sam's smile was a little sickly looking. He was feeling more than a little irritated with his brother. And he was a bit embarrassed? Sam was more comfortable with Reggie's gift, so she didn't keep quite as thick a wall between them. He was also louder than Dean, possibly because he was psychic himself.

"You feeling okay?"

Sam gritted his teeth, damn Dean for leaving him to deal with this!

"Fine" he said faintly. He was going to kill his brother!

Mel gasped and dug her fingers into the soft brown hair of the nameless man who held her, mewing softly as she shuddered to her first climax less than ten minutes after following the stranger with the sensual green eyes into the bathroom. She had taken one look at that luscious mouth, as it curved slowly into a devilish smile, and felt the tingle in every nerve ending of her body. His eyes had been bold, appreciative, and filled with hedonic promise. It had been an offer she couldn't refuse.

But she'd had no idea it would be like this.

He had her top and bra undone before she could utter a single syllable, and before she knew it, she was wrapped around him, one leg around his waist, the other curving around behind his knee as he pressed her to the wall. The beautiful eyes smoldered with longing, and the playful mouth was voracious, nipping, teasing, everywhere. The hands, _God!_ They were large and calloused, and achingly thorough in their undeniable appetite to touch. He demanded all, everything, now! And she had neither time nor will to deny him, as his hand slipped under her skirt. The man was an artist. He held her now, humming softly against her neck, as she trembled in the aftershock of the abrupt, explosive orgasm.

Dean was an intensely tactile creature. He loved the feel and sound of a woman, the heat of them, craved it. The contact, the pleasure of the power to give as much as to take. He had little to offer, but he was generous with what he had. For example, he was good with his hands. He couldn't stay, he couldn't love them, but he could make damn sure they remembered him fondly. The woman in his arms looked into his eyes and opened her mouth, but no words came out, her breath literally stolen. Smiling at the compliment, he stroked a hand through her hair, and nuzzled a kiss against her throat.

"Why thank you darlin'", the deep rumble of his voice vibrated against her, his breath skated over her skin,

"I aim to please".

Still breathing hard, she moved to slide down his body. Dean stopped her, pinning her hips with his own,

"Oh honey" he purred huskily, "I ain't nearly done yet".

Her little moan of pleasure echoed off the tiled walls as his mouth closed over hers.

Reggie's fingers drummed impatiently on the table. Where in the hell was Dean? He'd been gone nearly ten minutes. She thought about using her gift to locate him._ You promised_, reminded her conscience. _Fine, _she shot back irritably. She looked at Sam, he was starring fixedly at the salt shaker.

"That's it", said Reggie, waving over a waitress, "We're ordering without him."

Sam relaxed, he'd been terrified she was going to send him into the bathroom after his brother. He looked at her face. There was

consternation written there, but no sign to suggest that she was anything less than manifestly oblivious as to the nature of his brother's extra-curriculars.

"Okay."

Dean emerged from the bathroom with a jaunty smile, feeling considerably more carefree, and saw Reggie and Sam sitting at the table. He fought the sudden urge to do something ridiculous, like check his collar for lipstick. He wasn't ashamed, but he had no doubt Reggie wouldn't hesitate to make his life hell if she figured it out. Her silent aloofness was worse than her sharp tongue. He figured she wouldn't understand. He hoped to hell she wasn't using her powers on him. He gave his mouth a cursory swipe, and headed to the table. He arrived at the same time as the food, and was surprised to see a plate slide in front of him. Reggie was scowling at him.

He climbed into the booth, as innocent as three lambs. But maybe not for long.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. Through the barrier she had erected, she could feel a whisper of impertinent accomplishment.

Sam was glaring at him,

"Yeah Dean, were have you been?"

No help from that quarter, _Thanks a lot Sammy_.

"Uh, I met a guy in there" he jerked his thumb over his shoulder,

"Who says…he's seen the fairy lights", he improvised quickly, raising his eyebrows and holding up his hands, as if to say, 'small world'. Reggie was immediately distracted,

"What fairy lights?"

The proverbial bullet dodged, he said,

"After breakfast. I'm starving."

Dean looked down at his plate, two eggs, sunny side up, and sausage.

"Nice call Sam" he said appreciatively.

Sam scowled, his tone implied he could happily watch Dean starve to death,

"Not me, Reggie."

And that left him completely nonplussed. She was constantly taking him off guard. Just when he thought she was deliberately oblivious to him, she'd do something like this. Something that said she noticed, more than he noticed her noticing. It was a disconcerting thought.

Both brothers were starring at her, Reggie shrugged.

"I'm a trained historian, I've a detail oriented mind and you're as predictable as the sunrise", she began to tick off items on her fingers.

"First choice, pancakes. If they don't have those, eggs, sunny side up with sausage" she indicated his plate,

"Never bacon, or you have a western omelet with home fries, unless of course" she shook her head despairingly,

"They have something as patently unhealthy as Lucky Charms or, McGriddles; ick", she finished with a disgusted flourish.

Scooping up her dish she smoothly dumped the sausage that had come with her own meal onto Dean's plate, snagging his toast in return.

"Hey", he protested, "How do you know I wasn't going to eat that?!"

Reggie held up the disputed toast,

"It's whole wheat."

Dean made a face,

"Keep it", he muttered.

Sam was looking quietly at Reggie, he knew it was juvenile, but he wondered if she knew his habits as well.

To Reggie, Sam was as transparent as glass.

"Veggie omelet with ham, hold the green pepper, or plain old scrambled eggs with" she held up her purloined toast,

"whole wheat toast. Bite?" she offered.

Grinning, Sam accepted the offering, taking a large chunk off the slice still in her hand.

Now it was Dean's turn to scowl.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Thanks for the good reviews guys.

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Reggie did not like guns. To her mind they were purely weapons of aggression. Guns were soulless, killing machines, the source of immeasurable human suffering.

She, Dean and Sam had trekked a little ways into the woods behind their motel. So they could conduct target practice in private. The only problem was, the student was more than a little unwilling. Reggie eyed the shotgun Sam was holding out to her distastefully. They had agreed to check out reports of strange lights in the area, what Dean said sounded like "Will O'the Wisps, or Fairy Lights", caused by small discharges of supernatural energy.

They weren't dangerous, but their presence usually indicated that something else was there, the source of the escaped energy. Reggie was wary, but game. She was every bit as bored with their endless, mindless routine as the Winchesters. She even found the prospect of a hunt a little bit exciting. At least she had, until they'd dragged her out here to learn how to use a bit of shiny silver death.

"I thought guns couldn't hurt ghosts anyway?" she said stubbornly.

Dean gritted his teeth,

"We load them with rock salt. It's" she held up a hand,

"I know, I know, a good spirit repellant."

"If you don't go armed, you don't go at all", said Dean, ignoring her long-suffering remark.

"You're a bossy bastard, you know that" she observed, voice neutral, eyes flashing.

"And you are one stubborn woman", he crossed his arms.

"You're staying home."

"I will not!"

"I'll tie you to the bed."

"You wouldn't dare!" He would, she knew he would. And the look on his face said he would enjoy it.

Reggie rolled her shoulders in agitation; at least Dean was an equal opportunity bossy bastard. He wanted to make sure she was prepared to defend herself, because that was one of the best ways to protect her. He could have been telling her the big bad gun was too much for her to handle. She decided to be grateful for small blessings.

Finally, she let Sam show her how to load the make-shift, saline shot and raised the gun, sighting on a medium sized rock about thirty feet away.

The recoil was more violent than she expected, the butt of the shotgun slammed into her shoulder and her shot went wide.

Several more failed attempts followed.

Dean shook his head. He knew she had weapons training and a good eye. The basics were all the same; centre yourself, focus, and let the weapon do the work. The problem was that she was always thinking. Never just used her instincts.

"Don't _try_, just _do_ it" he instructed.

"Yes Yoda" she muttered.

"I so heard that."

Reggie ignored him, that was, until he put his hands on her.

The image of the little brunette waitress flashed in her mind's eye. She was neither as naïve, nor as puritanical as either brother thought. Her aversion to touching had nothing to do with a lack of sexuality, on the contrary, her sexuality and sensuality were such an integral part of her that they couldn't be separated from her deep emotional issues with intimacy and the trust that it required. To let someone touch her physically was to give them a handhold in her soul. But that didn't mean she yearn for it, didn't understand the need.

Dean was a man, she got it. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

_Stop being ridiculous!_ She berated herself mentally. Refusing to admit that there might be more than one reason that Dean's touch unnerved her.

She went stiff as a board, and got that regal tilt to her chin, the one that said, _Hands off macho man, or I'll make you regret it_. Truth was, he admired her ability to make mere mortals quail with that queenly demeanor. But Dean was hardly your average peasant.

"Easy does it princess" his voice sounded calmly in her ear, and sent shivers down her back.

"I'm not the big bad wolf", he settled his arms lightly around her.

His sarcasm stiffened her spine. She shot him a killing look over her shoulder, it would have felled a lesser man.

Dean thought that she was beautiful when she was angry. He ignored the golden flames that spat from her eyes, and the fact that she clearly couldn't stand to have him touch her. He flat out refused to think about why he should care.

Reggie gritted her teeth, but let him guide her.

He waited patiently, hovering until he felt her relax ever so slightly. At her silent permission, Dean covered her hands with his. He respected her feelings enough to be quick.

"Now, you need to relax your wrists a bit." He gave them a gentle shake,

"Absorb the energy, accept the recoil. Don't fight it so hard." His voice was quite, and his touch sure and business-like as he adjusted her hands, face resting an inch from hers.

She let out a breath when he stepped back and away.

"You can try imagining someone you don't like as the target", suggested Sam.

Reggie gave Dean a loaded look. The shotgun came up. _Pingpingpingpingpingping, _the salt bounced off the rock.

Dean pursed his lips speculatively,

"Not bad."

He rocked back on his heels and grinned when she turned on him, eyes snapping,

"Oh don't thank me. Always glad to be of"

he glanced at the white powder on the rock knowing full well she'd been seeing his face there,

"service", he finished blithely, tipping an imaginary hat and sauntering away before she could say anything.

Reggie knew her eyes were, irrationally, full of accusation. What did she have to accuse him of? Helping her? Being gorgeous? Making her feel something?

She stamped out that thought before it made it from one side of her brain to the other.

He was an arrogant, impudent smart ass, and she wasn't going there.

Sam came up beside her.

"That was better. You don't have to worry about being too accurate with the shotgun, anything in the general vicinity will do".

Reggie happily abandoned her unsettling thoughts and focused on him.

"You wanna practice some more?"

She didn't really but…

Reggie nodded, Dean was heading back to the room, and right now, she'd settle for being _anywhere_, he wasn't.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: Okay, the next few chapters are going to focus on setting up the new hunt, and on how Reggie and Dean are dealing with their developing relationship. I'm afraid they are going to be stubborn about it.

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Twenty-four hours later, Dean returned from another scouting trip to town. He'd spent the better part of the previous evening and today talking to the locals, trying to find people who had seen the Will O'the Wisps. He figured after yesterday's 'encounter', Reggie could use some space and, quite frankly, so could he.

Yesterday's little episode had forced him to admit that living in such close proximity to her was making him crazy. Even when she wanted to kill him, all he could do was think about how beautiful she was. That was inconvenient for several reasons, not the least of which was that she could hardly stand the sight of him, and she may, or may not, have something going on with his brother. So, she and Sam had stayed at the motel, to do some research and see if they could unearth any other signs of paranormal activity.

Dean exhaled slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose as he pulled into the motel lot. He hated dealing with the screwballs this kind of case always brought out. At least in England (where the legend of the wisps was most prominent) people had the sense to assign them supernatural status; you know, corpse lights; the legend of Will the smith, doomed by the devil to roam the moors; they were even the basis for the whole Jack O'Lantern thing.

No so in America.

Mostly he'd been forced to suffer your average UFO enthusiasts. They were always mistaking Wisps for evidence of extra terrestrial activity. In this case, area 56 hadn't been hard to find. There were a large number of the nutters camped out in the woods, near an old abandoned plantation house where the sightings originated. Some of them were even living in the old slave quarters. He rolled his eyes, why go looking as far a field as outer space when there was so much fucked up weirdness right under your nose?

Most of their information was useless too. It was difficult and exasperating work, trying to coax out what people had actually seen, as opposed to what they wanted to have seen. Unlike your average witnesses to the supernatural, it wasn't that they wouldn't talk, it was that they wouldn't shut up. Of course some of them were just plan nuts, but others could eventually be cajoled into admitting that they hadn't seen the mother ship, but rather, only a small rotating disk of light flickering in the distance. Every bit of information came with a high price tag, a substantial chunk of Dean's time and forbearance spent listening to their crackpot theories.

He'd spoken to abduction victims, conspiracy theorists, abandoned alien children, and one interstellar vacuum salesman. Dean shook his head.

When you got to the bottom of it, the pertinent stories had only a few things in common. The lights were bluish white, they appeared and disappeared suddenly, seemed to flicker, and then there was the interesting part. Apparently Zostan, whom he was assured was the divine leader and the first contacted of the chosen, those soon to be returned to the mother planet Xacatan, (Dean considered keeping a serious face through that bit a not inconsiderable feat), had followed the light into the woods and never come out. That had been two days ago. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Maybe Reggie and Sam had had better luck.

He opened the door to the motel room. Sam sat in a chair with his feet on the small table, ploughing his way through a stack of articles. Reggie was lying on her stomach on the far bed with Sam's computer in front of her. There were papers scattered across the duvet. It looked like chaos, but Dean had learned that Reggie's eccentric filing system was perfectly functional. She could lay her hands on anything she wanted in a matter of seconds. She was dressed for bed.

Even in the hotter weather, Reggie wore long sleeved tee shirts and yoga pants. For his benefit he was sure. Tonight was no exception, but the indigo top was made of such diaphanous cotton it didn't conceal nearly as much as she thought it did. The white pants weren't form fitting, but draped lovingly around her curves as she turned onto her side at the sound of his entrance, propping herself on her right elbow. Her brow furrowed in a frown as she concentrated on a piece of paper in her hand, looking for some specific information she wanted to pass on.

Her hair was still damp from her shower, curling softly around her face, and her golden eyes glowed in the low light cast by the bed side table. Her eyelashes were long enough to cast crescent shadows on her alabaster skin. Dean swallowed, _alabaster!_ _Who the hell was he trying to impress!_ But somehow the poetic term seemed appropriate.

His gaze traveled over her, following the line of a long leg to the generous curve of a hip, dipping down to the tiny waist and, his mouth was dry, the tantalizing fantasy of full breasts cradled by dark, amethyst fabric. His eyes slid to her mouth, it was lavishly full and curved, the naked lips a dusky rose. Dean had known beautiful women, but he'd never known one who was as many kinds of beautiful as Reggie.

She had the kind of body that screamed of full-on femme fatal potential, sensual colouring and a softness that whispered of equally erotic but less overt pleasures, a classically beautiful, delicate face that should belong to a painting in a museum, and the kind of warmth and supple female strength that made men want…well, things they shouldn't, especially if they were Dean Winchester. Dean shook his head sharply and glanced back a Reggie's face, she hadn't noticed his perusal. She was still studying the paper intently, her small white teeth worried her lush lower lip in frustration.

_Christ Jesus! _

Defeated, Dean keeled face down onto the bed.

_She was trying to kill him._


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: Okay, this is a bit of everything. Little return to the larger story arc, little Dean/Reggie stuff. A little frivolous fun. Enjoy.

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Reggie heard Dean come in. Quickly, she grabbed the likely looking article she'd found about a string of nasty homicides in the area, and skimmed through the text, looking for the information on the female victim she'd thought sounded like the most likely candidate for a ghost. She jolted as Dean toppled unceremoniously onto the bed across from her. She looked up, he was lying horizontally across the mattress, his head hanging over the near edge of the bed, face to the floor.

Dean was trying desperately to find some humour in his torturous situation. And that's what it was. Torture, because, little brunette waitresses aside, it was Reggie he wanted like hell burning. But, Reggie was the kind of girl you made a life with, which meant he could never have her. Dean's dreams of domestic bliss were displaced onto Sam. Despite what he had said when he'd first come looking for his brother at Stanford nearly two years ago, he hoped that when this was all over, his brother would be able to have the life he had always wanted. Sam wanted more, and Dean wanted more for him. But for himself, there was only this. A life of wandering and adventure. He was a hunter. He would always be a hunter, someone had to do it. He accepted that, and accepted that Reggie wasn't for him.

He played fast and loose, and he was betting that she was more like Sam, he was betting that Reggie played for keeps. Not to mention how thoroughly irresponsible it would be to have a relationship with a woman in a strange and frightening situation, who was forced to depend upon him. He did have some moral integrity. Dean let out a long, slow breath, coming to terms, as he always did, with the limitations of his chosen life. He grinned and mocked himself, _Easy Casanova, she doesn't like you anyway_. He felt better, having faced the truth, he was sure he could control himself. He raised his head, and besides, just because he couldn't touch, didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the view.

Reggie looked into Dean's green eyes as an unusual emotion prickled her senses, regret was something that the hunter rarely felt. His philosophy was more of the "play the hand your dealt and cheat if you have to" kind. He was studying her, he seemed less agitated then he had been for the past little while, as though he had come to terms with something. She was returning his lazy smile before she knew what she was doing. Ducking her head she tossed the article at him.

He made her _so nervous_ when he looked at her like that.

"You should read this, especially the bit about the female cop", she said, and looked pointedly back to the computer.

For the moment, Dean ignored the article.

"What you got there?" he asked, indicating the screen.

"A frumious Bandersnatch" she muttered evasively, without taking her eyes from the screen. Most people would just have said "nothing", but Dean got it. The obscure reference was Reggie-speak for 'mind your own business'. As if he would.

Dean peered over her shoulder.

"Really? It doesn't look like something with an appetite for stalwart bankers".

He smiled at her astonished look, pleased to have ruffled her, and quoted,

"But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,

A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh.

And grabbed at the banker, who shrieked in despair,

For he knew it was useless to fly".

Reggie knew her mouth was hanging open.

"Yeah" Dean continued casually, enjoying her chagrin,

"That Bandersnatch was bad business, but I gotta say, in an Ultimate Monster Smackdown" he clicked his tongue and slanted her a sidelong look, inviting her to join the joke,

"I think the Snark would take him."

Reggie shook her head and played along, unable to fight the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It was such a 'guy thing' to say about a famous piece of literature.

"Jabberwocky all the way" she disagreed.

"Huh?" said Sam.

Dean looked at Reggie, who was observing him in a "measuring" kind of way.

"What, surprised?" he asked, eyebrows raised, his trademark, cocky grin in place.

Reggie knew he was smart, that wasn't news to her. He was the one who insisted on playing half-wit hayseed with that "Aw shucks M'am" routine. She was however, often amazed by how well read he was.

"How could I be, when you so frequently display your propensity for nonsense?"

He laughed at her sassy reply. That was something he could enjoy without reservation, her quick mind.

He went quiet for a moment,

"My mother used to read me the Hunting of the Snark." He said it with a quick shrug and Reggie didn't respond, because it was one of the few times a mention of his mother had not been accompanied by a cruel surge of pain.

Sam watched Reggie and his brother share a laugh over the cryptic gibberish words.

"I think I missing the joke. I don't understand."

Reggie smiled at him,

"Neither did Lewis Carrol."

"So" despite the amusing aside, Dean was not one to be put off.

"What have you got there? And I know it's not something that gyres or gimbles."

"It's a Celtic tree calendar" she answered with a sigh. The man had a one track mind.

"I'm still trying to find out about Gran's amulet."

"Anything?" asked Sam coming over. He'd nearly forgotten about his mysterious vision, which had first brought Reggie into their lives.

"Ummm" she was scanning the page quickly, and then went quiet.

"What month were you born?" She asked the brothers.

"April" said Sam.

"June" responded Dean.

"June what?" she asked, sounding a bit strained.

"Eleventh. Why?"

Reggie looked at the screen, there it was, the tree from the pendant. Diur, Oak. The tree of fidelity, protection and positive purpose.

Not saying a word, Reggie held up her pendant next to the image on the screen.

"Holy shit" said Dean. The tree on the amulet was more elaborate, the branches woven into whirling, winding patterns, but it was the same tree.

"I think…I think the pattern of the branches is meant to represent the Celtic spiral, the symbol of the continuity of life" she managed to get out.

"So, what does this mean?" asked Sam.

Reggie's breath was caught in her chest, it meant her Gran had intended for her to find Sam and Dean Winchester.

"Reggie?" asked Sam.

Reggie had never really supposed to tell the Winchester's about her Gran's dream visitations. She didn't want to sound like some sort of flakey fruitcake. Even in the Winchester's line of work, she was pretty sure that having nonsensical conversations with your dead Grandmother counted as pretty weird, and more than that, unreliable. But now she felt like she had no choice.

Reggie took a deep breath.

"Well, about a month before we met in California, I started having these dreams."

"And what you saw started coming true, right?" said Sam excitedly.

"Um, no", she looked at him in confusion.

"Oh" his face fell,

"Sorry, I thought you were going to say that you've been getting visions, like me."

Reggie shook her head,

"Not visions, visitations."

"Huh?" said Dean.

"My Grandmother started to appear in my dreams", she looked at the two men,

"And she spoke to me." They didn't react.

"So what did she say?" prompted Sam when she hesitated.

"She said" and this was were it got really weird, and rounded the bend into what Dean disparagingly called mystical mumbo jumbo,

"She said, Find the tree, find the key. I figured she must have meant the one on the pendant. It was the only thing that made sense."

She rushed on because Dean was looking skeptical,

"She was so desperate, but she couldn't say what she meant, it seemed like a huge effort just to be there. And I'm sure it was really her" she looked at Dean,

"I'm positive."

He believed her. Even though dream visions were sketchy stuff, and you could never be sure if who you were talking to was who you thought they were, he trusted her, and besides, she'd said the Grandmother had second sight, that would allow her to force a communication across the veil.

"But I didn't really understand what she meant by what she said." Reggie looked at the computer screen,

"I'm still not sure." Though, it seemed as though the tree was supposed to represent Dean in some way, or perhaps he represented the qualities of fidelity and protection it symbolized?

Reggie sucked in a breath,

"Oh God!" she whispered,

"She knew. Gran knew that the demon was coming for me." And she'd sent Reggie to the Winchesters for help.

"Looks like" replied Dean grumpily. He hated this sort of prophesying, omens, destiny crap.

Sam thought he knew what was going on. He tried to explain it to Reggie.

"The reason she's speaking in riddles is because it's difficult to enact communication between the living and the dead. Your Grandmother isn't a ghost, she's a spirit who has already crossed over, and is trying to correspond with you from the other side. It's really hard. My guess is the only reason she can do it at all is because she was attuned to the supernatural while she was alive."

Reggie nodded, "Okay, but what do I do about it?"

Sam shrugged,

"Nothing, it looks like you figured out the message. You're with us, and we're keeping you away from the demon. She hasn't appeared to you lately, has she?" he asked.

"No. Not for weeks" Reggie whispered, she sounded disappointed.

Sam put an arm around her shoulders. Whatever he'd once felt for Reggie, ever since that morning after their confrontation with the demon when she'd treated him as though he were a brother, rather than a man, he'd been firmly shoving it aside, and it seemed to finally have worked. His initial interest had faded into something almost fraternal. And Reggie had responded, almost completely relaxing her guard. He gave her a little squeeze.

"Hey" he murmured,

"She loved you enough to come back and warn you, even though it was hard. It's time to let her go."

Reggie nodded, it was hard, to say goodbye again, but it looked like Gran had done what she'd come to do. Reggie sighed and accepted that she wouldn't see her Grandmother again.

But she was wrong.

Note:

The quotes and characters in this chapter are taken from Lewis Carrol's poems, _The Hunting of the Snark, _and _Jabberwoky_. Both poems belong to the genre of Nonsense Poems Carrol created. He was frequently quoted as saying he didn't understand them himself. I thought they would be a perfect foil for Dean's character because they are litteraly monsters made up of nonsense, from a time before he knew monsters were real.


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Note: Hey guys. I know it has been a bit longer than ususal since the last update. I live in an old building and our internet connection has been on the fritz. Anyway. Happy Reading!

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"Gran! Gran!" eight year old Reggie skipped across the green lawn in front of the old yellow house towards her Grandmother.

"I did it Gran. I did it!" she said excitedly.

"I figured it out" she said proudly, tugging on the hand of the handsome older woman with faded blue eyes.

"Have you come to say goodbye Gran? 'Cause Sam says it's time to let you go" young Reggie paused, frowning,

"But I don't wanna" she whispered confidentially.

Gran fell to her knees and grabbed Reggie by the arms. Her eyes were rolling back in fright, showing the whites as she looked behind her.

The woman's distress was palpable.

"Gran?" Reggie's voice trembled.

"Gran, what's happening?"

"You'll be safe with the forty-eighth" she said, squeezing Reggie's arms.

"What? Gran, Gran!" A small curl of smoke rose from her Grandmother's favorite pink shawl.

"Gran! I don't understand!" Reggie's voice was desperate.

She screamed as her Grandmother erupted into flames.

"You'll be safe with the forty-eighth!" Gran croaked out.

Reggie watched in horror as her Grandmother became a pillar of flame. She screamed until her throat was hoarse.

"Not again! Not again! Please, not again!"

The sharp, stabbing pain in Reggie's side wrenched her from the grip of the nightmare. Sam's elbow slammed into her ribs for a second time, creating a new bruise on top of an old one. Shaking and gasping, she slid out of the bed onto the floor, resting her back against the side of the bed and her head on her knees, as she tried to still her wildly beating heart.

_Just a dream._ She told herself. _It's just a dream. Gran is gone, nothing can hurt her anymore._

Shivering, Reggie ran her hands through her hair. She didn't know what was going on, or what this was supposed to mean. What in the hell was the forty-eighth? Unlike the previous message, there was nothing even the least bit familiar for her to grasp at. She had not idea what her Gran wanted her to do. And she didn't relish passing on this new message to Sam and Dean. They would want to know about the dream to, and it was too personal, too private, and too painful. She fought the threatening tears and tried to push the image of the devouring flames from her mind.

Suddenly Reggie was exhausted. More tired than she had ever been in her life. They'd been on the road nearly two weeks, and she'd had almost no sleep, only the cat naps she grabbed in the car. Her body was covered in bruises and she hurt everywhere. But she didn't want to make Sam feel bad by switching beds.

_Liar._ She accused herself. _You just don't want to sleep with Dean_.

The proximity would simply be too much. Here, in the dark, her strength drained by nightmare and grief, she could admit to herself that it was because he scared her. He tempted her. Dean was exactly the kind of man Reggie was most wary of, because with Dean, there was no half way. He was a rolling tidal wave of purpose and charisma, you got out of his way, or you were swept up. _And you drowned_, thought Reggie darkly.

Her own sense of self wasn't strong enough to stand up to Dean. _What even makes you think a man like Dean Winchester would be the slightest bit interested in you?_ said a nasty voice in the back of her head. _Can you possibly be vain enough to sit here, on this floor, and think that it matters one way or the other, what you decide? If he turned around tomorrow and said the word, you'd hand yourself over, body and soul._ Reggie was terrified that it might be true. _And he'll hurt you, he'll destroy you, _continued the new voice of fear. _You won't be able to hold back, and when he leaves you, and you know he will, he'll take everything with him, there won't be any you anymore. _Reggie pressed her hands too her eyes. _Shut up!_ she snapped mentally. _I will **not** let you do this to me!_ There wasn't even anything going on between her and Dean. He thought of her as part of the job, and he made her nuts. She needed to get a grip. _Than why don't you go over there and get into that bed?_ taunted the nasty voice.

Reggie gave a little growl and stood up. Tomorrow, she was going to pretend this little incident had never happened. It was easy to put these little conversations out of her mind. Hearing the contempt of her father in her head for twenty-two years, she'd learned how to do it with ease. Tomorrow, Dean would just be Dean again, who drove her crazy with his arrogance and devil-may-care attitude. But she would stay well away from him just incase. Reggie rose to get back into bed.

_Thwack!_ Sam's fist struck the pillow where, ten seconds later, her head would have been. Reggie made up her mind. She'd show herself that there was nothing to worry about. Nothing to be afraid of, because she didn't like Dean, and he didn't like her. Besides, if she didn't get some sleep, she was going to lose her mind. _If I haven't already_.

Snatching up her pillow, she tiptoed quietly around the far bed towards the one nearer the door. The one were Dean slept.

Dean woke up every hour, on the hour. It was something navy S.E.A.L.s did, and an old S.E.A.L. friend of his father's had taught him how to train himself to hover, just this side of consciousness, check for danger, and slip back into sleep with virtually no disruption of the R.E.M. cycle. At one am he'd awoken, and realized that Reggie wasn't in bed. She was sitting on the floor. He listened intently, seeing her clearly in his mind's eye as she rose. _Whap!_ Dean heard the unmistakable sound of Sam's thrashing. He winced. And then he went still, as he heard Reggie pick up her pillow and pad around the bed towards him.

Lying on his side, facing away from her, Dean pretended to sleep. He barely felt her lay the pillow on the bed beside his own, felt the cool rush of air as she gingerly lifted the covers, and the slow dipping of the mattress as she slid into the bed beside him with exaggerated care. She lay stiffly on the very edge of the bed. He wondered what dark monstrosity she sensed in him that made her so terrified to even get near him, that she would have endured Sam's nightly convulsions for this long. He knew she was exhausted, there were black circles under her eyes, and she often looked wan and pale in the morning.

_Well_,said a voice in his head, _Sam may be the mind-freak with the dark destiny, but so far, you're the only ruthless killer in the family._ Sometimes it worried him, the lengths to which he would go to protect his baby brother. Did Reggie somehow sense the darkness in him? _Dude_, said another voice, _Quit being so Doctor Phil_. Dean abandoned his philosophizing and lay quietly, waiting for Reggie to relax.

Reggie lay in the bed, wound more tightly than a drum _This was stupid, I'm never going to get any sleep like this_, she chided herself.

Dean calculated that it took Reggie approximately five minutes to drift into sleep.

When Dean woke, as per his schedule, at two am, he got the surprise of his life. Reggie was sound asleep beside him, and he was wrapped around her. She lay with her back pressed against his chest and her head resting on the pillow next to his. Dean's left arm was stretched beneath her shoulder, his hand hanging over the side of the bed. Reggie's left arm was stretched along his. His right arm was wrapped around her waist, and hers rested on top of it, holding him, holding her. His right leg was thrown over the lower half of her body, and his face was nuzzled into the soft spot between her neck and shoulder.

_What in the hell is this?_ He demanded of himself. He tried not to think about how she smelled and felt as he eased away. He closed his eyes, all the old clichés were true. Skin like satin and hair like silk, and she smelled good, like verbena and honeysuckle. Muttering under his breath, Dean retreated to the far side of the bed. It was so not fair. There was a beautiful woman sleeping in his bed, and he couldn't touch her, even if she would allow it, he wouldn't. He ordered himself to go back to sleep, but couldn't stop the small smile that curved his mouth. Whatever Miss Thorpington might think when she was awake, she trusted him when she was asleep. It made him feel better.

At three am Dean found himself right back where he started. The same at four, and then five. Finally, he gave up, and wondered what higher power he had pissed of to deserve this new facet of his torture. He didn't want to think to hard about what it might mean. He would accept it, and….he valued what it stood for, the trust, even if he was the only one who knew about it. And that was one thing he knew for sure. Whatever instinctual trust she might feel in her sleep, if Reggie woke up to find Dean covering her more intimately than the blanket, she'd bolt and, even if Sam beat her black and blue, she wouldn't come back. He'd better make damn sure he was up before she was.


	24. Chapter 24

Author's Note: Enjoy!

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Reggie's consciousness surfaced slowly, her body unwilling to relinquish its hold on the first real sleep she'd had in longer than she could remember. Her body felt soft and heavy, she was cuddled deep into the mattress, and she wanted nothing more than to say there. Sleepily, she tried to remember what had happened last night, and shot up into a sitting position when she did.

Sam was asleep in the second bed, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. She let her breath trail out in a little stream of relief. Other memories, darker, and more frightening, seethed in the back of her mind. Reggie slammed a mental door on them. _I am not going to ruin my first decent morning with that crap_, she told herself firmly.

"Morning" said Dean from the doorway.

Reggie jumped.

"Oh, morning",

she said, commanding herself not to blush. There was just something to awkward about making polite small talk with a man, when you were sitting in his bed. But Dean didn't seem the least bit perturbed. He strode into the room and, grabbing Sam' s pillow from under his head, casually clouted him with it.

"Rise and shine, Sunshine!"

he said, rather more loudly than necessary. Sam groaned and rolled over, Dean gave him another thump with the pillow.

"C'mon, we've got work to do."

Sam rolled out of bed and headed directly for the shower.

Considering that Dean had rolled out of bed at six am, voluntarily!, he was remarkably lively. He didn't want to risk having Reggie wake up and discover their intimate proximity. Now, he watched her covertly, as she sat amid the rumpled sheets they'd shared and did her best impression of a tomato. He rolled his eyes at himself, how in God's name could that be cute! But it was.

He laughed silently to himself, she was embarrassed. _And honey, you don't know the half of it, _he thought. But it only proved that his instincts had been right on. As far as she knew, they'd done nothing but share mattress space, on opposite sides of the bed, and she could barely look him in the eye. He decided that the best thing to do was pretend nothing had happened.

_And what exactly do **you** think happened? _He asked himself. _You think she's over-reacting because she's blushing, but here you are, treating it like it's a state secret. You want to know what happened? _He asked himself depreciatingly. _Nothing. Nothing happened. It was a one time deal, and now it's over. _Dean told himself to get a grip, and tried not to think about why he was overanalysing this so much.

Dean sat down at the table to fiddle with the EMF meter. Reggie noticed he had the article she'd shown him last night sitting in front of him.

Unable to do anything else until Sam got out of the bathroom, she did the unthinkable. She started a conversation with Dean.

"So what do you think? I think Marnie Dyer is the best candidate for a ghost, you know the female cop, she led her partner right into a trap."

"Hmmmm" Dean looked up at her,

"Could be. Of course, it might not be a ghost at all, though wisps are most commonly caused by unquiet spirits."

"Right" Reggie nodded.

"I figure it should be someone connected to the murders, since the victims are the only recent deaths around here.

"Well" she amended,

"The victims and the murderer."

"Damnit!" Dean cursed.

Clearly the EMF wasn't co-operating.

"Stupid thing" he muttered, and gave it a cursory whack on the edge of the table.

"Hey Hey" he smiled as the lights flashed and the device gave a lively beep, casting Reggie a triumphant look. She waited.

"Right" he picked up their previous conversation,

"Yeah, I think today we should go down to the plantation house and see if we can't find out where" he looked at the article again,

"Old Dicky was shot down. The cop and her partner both died there too, so it's the most likely place to start looking, and that's were all the wisps are."

He shook his head,

"We're gonna have to lie low though. It's a bit crowded out there."

"It is?" asked Reggie surprised.

Dean grunted,

"Oh yeah, whackos as far as the eye can see. I figured we'd check out some of the older out buildings first, since there isn't as much traffic there, and the article doesn't actually say where the shooting took place, just that it was on the estate."

"Right", Reggie said again. She was running out of things to say. Dean didn't seem to mind, he looked thoroughly preoccupied. She felt the quiet thrumming of his excited anticipation.

Reggie was right. Dean was dying to get back on the job. He was busy trying to figure out how the disappearance of Zostan (he rolled his eyes) might fit into all of this. Sam came out of the bathroom, dressed and ready to go. Reggie got up and grabbed her clothes, heading in to get changed and washed.

Neither she nor either of the brothers said a word about the new sleeping arrangement.

Dean had to hand it to Reggie, she wasn't one of those girls who took three hours to get ready just to go to the corner store. Not that he objected to those types of women, in the right circumstances. But he was pleased to see her emerge less than twenty minutes later, dressed in jeans and a sage coloured tank-top. She had her bangs swept off her forehead, and wore only her grandmother's pendant for decoration. She slipped into her running shoes.

Dean looked at Sam, who was reading the paper he'd brought in, and listening to Dean run down the details of the case with one ear.

"So, the only thing we don't have a good handle on is whether Zostan's got his divine self killed by something nasty, or if he just woke up one day and realized that in two months, he's going to be torn limb from limb when the mother ship doesn't show up to take him and his 'followers' home to Xacta-thingy."

Sam threw the paper on the table,

"I think I can answer that question for you."

And there it was, second page, **Man Killed in Woods, Wife Claims by Hostile Aliens**. Dean picked up the paper and scanned it quickly, frowning, he grabbed Reggie's article and compared something.

"Bingo" he murmured,

"I think we found our ghost."

"Oh yeah?" said Sam,

"Yeah" replied Dean,

"Poor old Zostan bit it just like those other murder victims."

"Could be a copy-cat" said Sam. Dean just looked at him.

"Yeah, probably not."

"So what does that mean?" asked Reggie.

"It means we've got one nasty, homicidal, bitch of a spirit on our hands. And _you_, are taking this", he tossed her the shotgun,

"Whether you like it or not."

Reggie glowered at him, but accepted the gun and checked the ammunition, just like Sam had taught her.

"Alright" Dean couldn't hold back his wide grin. Damn but it felt good to be back.

"Let's go kill the evil sonofabitch."

The impala pulled off to the side of the little dirt road a considerable ways from a tiny city of tents and RV's.

"What on earth is that?" asked Reggie, looking at the assorted mobile domiciles and the strange looking people wandering around. Some of them wore outlandish costumes and others were painted with strange symbols, or carried strange items. One man appeared to have a large radio antenna taped to his back.

Dean grimaced,

"ET phone home", he said.

"They think the wisps are UFO's?" she asked incredulously.

"That's about it" he answered with a shake of his head.

"Now" he turned to look at Reggie where she sat in the back seat.

"What do you do if you see a flickering light?"

"Oh for crying out loud!"

"What do you do?"

Sam sniggered, he'd listened to Dean quiz Reggie the entire way to the plantation.

"I shoot it."

Dean nodded.

"And if you see something that looks like a ghost?"

"How am I supposed to know if it looks like a ghost!?"

Dean waited expectantly.

Reggie sighed,

"I shoot it."

"And if you see anything else that looks even a little bit weird or out of place?"

"I get it, I get it, shoot first, ask questions later."

Dean gave her a hard look and Reggie held up a hand to forestall him.

"I'll be careful, I promise."

"Yeah."

The truth was, as anxious as Dean was to go after the bad guy, the fact that they were most likely dealing with the spirit of a malicious murderer, who was continuing his rather impressive killing spree from beyond the grave, made him nervous. He was worried about Reggie. But, if the ghost was still killing, they couldn't just take off and let it keep hurting people, and they couldn't leave Reggie at home. He sighed,

"Let's go. We'll start with the out buildings around towards the west, away from the main house and the freak show."


	25. Chapter 25

Author's Note:

And the hunt is on.

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The three of them got out of the car and began to creep towards the abandoned buildings, tying to stay out of sight. Looking at them, Reggie thought that in their hay day, they would have been lucky to be called dilapidated, now, they were practically disintegrating. Paint peeled, and graying wood rotted. Roofs were collapsed and in some places, the whole building had just given up, keeled over in its entirety, and died.

"Get down" hissed Sam from his position slightly ahead of her. Dean was slightly behind.

The three ducked in the over grown grass, as a small group of blue-robed people with purple stars drawn on their foreheads, passed nearby. Muttering, Reggie got to her feet, and promptly tripped over the tail ends of one of Sam's enormous shirts. She had been forced to wear it because of the shot gun. The oversized folds were an excellent place to conceal the weapon, and she couldn't very well go "waltzing around with it in plain view now could she", as she'd pointed out to Dean in a last ditch effort to get rid of the gun. Even though it was only loaded with salt, holding it was making her edgy.

Grumbling she scooped up the shirt tails and eyed them with irritation, as if they were deliberately trying to trip her up.

"Reggie" called Dean softly,

"Get moving."

Sighing, she tied the ends of the shirt in a knot, readjusted the shotgun where it lay, muzzle down, along her side, and scooted over to where the Winchesters were waiting.

After several more moments of covert manoeuvring, they found themselves amid the little ghost town.

_That's probably a little too accurate._ Reggie thought to herself, looking around at the yawning, black doorways.

"Now what?" she asked quietly.

"Now" said Sam,

"We investigate. Just don't wander off, okay."

Dean was pulling out the EMF meter.

Reggie huffed out her breath, they were so overprotective. It wasn't as though she didn't understand the gravity or the risks of the situation. And besides, she had absolutely _no_ desire to venture into one of ominous looking cots alone. Even if she hadn't had a better idea than most, of what might be waiting for her inside. Dean was walking away from them, moving from hut to hut, scanning with the EMF for signs of activity.

Reggie followed Sam around the corner of one of the small constructions, watching with interest as he scanned the ground. Stooping suddenly, he yanked out his knife. There was a thick, gooey residue on the bare earth. It was a grey-black clump of viscous matter, and when Sam poked at it, Reggie's stomach gave a little lurch. But she forced herself to walk over anyway.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Ectoplasm", said Sam, his brow was furrowed in worry.

"You only find it around really angry ghosts." _Really angry and really **dangerous **__ghosts_, he thought. _Where the hell was Dean_? Sam stood up.

"C'mon" he said to Reggie, and the two headed back the way they had come. Sam walked round the corner out of sight and Reggie hurried to follow, she hadn't liked the tone of his voice at all, or the fission of fear she'd picked up on. Just as she was passing the doorway, and Sam came into her view, she paused. An older man, with grey streaks in his brown hair and an enormous, battered suitcase, had appeared from nowhere and was advancing on the young hunter. Before she could decide what to do, a hand reached out of the darkness of the hut and grabbed her by the collar of Sam's shirt, jerking her into the blackness.

Reggie opened her mouth to scream, but Dean's hand clamped over her face, as he came into her range of vision. He looked positively petrified.

"Shhhhhh" he hissed. Releasing her, he crept to the door and looked out. The elderly man had laid his suitcase on the ground and was bowing elaborately to Sam, holding out what looked like a toaster crossed with a leaf blower.

"What's going on? Who is that?"

"That" said Dean with a sigh of relief, as he ascertained they'd made good their escape,

"Is Dordle. He sells vacuums, on Mars."

Reggie goggled at him.

"On Mars?" she repeated with disbelief.

"Yeah, but he thinks they're really gonna take off here. After Armageddon of course. There's nothing like them for dealing with the post-apocalyptic clean-up."

Reggie giggled, and Dean grunted,

"I'm serious, that's his tag line."

"And when is Armageddon scheduled?" she asked.

"Oh not for another four million years or so" he looked at her,

"He's hoping to corner the advance market" he said, deadpan.

Reggie slapped a hand over her mouth and peeked around the doorway at Sam. He was trying desperately to disentangle himself from Dordle, but the little man was having none of it. He had a vice-like grip on Sam's arm and was insisting on showing him the "new and improved Super Nova Sucker 2000, great for space dust and antimatter."

_Sorry Sammy_, thought Dean, and, grabbing Reggie, darted out of the little cabin, sacrificing his brother on the alter of psychotic interstellar entrepaneurship, and hoping that he would have enough time to check out the remaining shacks without interference. Besides, if he had to listen to Dordle's pitch on the Sucker again, he'd shoot him, or possibly himself.

"What, we're just going to leave Sam?" demanded Reggie, as Dean dragged her out of the hut.

"He'll be fine. Believe me, he's dealt with things a lot weirder" he paused,

"well, he 's dealt with things a lot more dangerous, than Dordle."

"If Dordle's so harmless, why are we running away?" she asked pointedly.

Dean chose to ignore that.

"C'mon. Let's just try to finish sweeping these buildings before something else happens."

"Oh" said Reggie,

"I think I should tell you that Sam found something called ectoplasm over there", she waved her hand towards the general vicinity of the goo.

Dean's eyes narrowed,

"Fan-fucking-tastic" he growled.

"You stay close to me" he ordered.

Reggie nodded. If it could make Sam and Dean this nervous, his agitated worry was singing along her nerves, then it was worth being afraid of.

She followed Dean into another of the little huts, and waited just inside the doorway, as he swept the EMF around the small room.

Reggie looked around nervously. She felt cold. Like there was a draft. She raised her eyes to the ceiling above her. It looked sort of like silvery fog.

Suddenly, Reggie felt the coldness inside her. _Oh dear_, she thought as blackness closed around her,_ Dean is going to be so mad. I forgot to shoot it._

Dean frowned as the EMF suddenly began to go haywire in his hand. He spun around to check on Reggie, just in time to see the silvery spirit wrap itself around her, and disappear. She fell, lifeless to the floor.

"Reggie!" he cried, running and dropping to her side. He breathed a sigh of relief when she opened her eyes, and then he realized that what was looking at him, wasn't Reggie.


	26. Chapter 26

Author's Note: Just want to say a quick hi to the new reviewers that the story has picked up. Thanks for the encouragement guys. Glad you like it.

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Reggie lay on the floor feeling a bit bewildered. She knew she was looking at Dean, that it was her eyes that were seeing him, and her brain receiving the ocular message, but somehow, Reggie wasn't getting it. Someone else was. It felt strange, as though the physical space that housed her mind was too crowded.

_No wonder, _she told herself. _There__'s someone else in here with you. _But that wasn't possible!_ Well, _she told herself, _Obviously it is. _The reality of the situation sunk in. Something was trying to highjack her body! This was not good._ So what are you going to do about it! _she demanded of herself. Well to that, she knew the answer. She was going to fight. _Hey_, she snapped at the someone. _What are you doing? This is my body. Get out, _she told the other firmly, reaching out to grab at it with the part of her that was her conscious mind.

She gave it a mental shove, and was surprised to feel it shove back. She'd be damned if she was going to let it push her around in her own body. With a little growl, she locked onto the other, and the two entities engaged in a vicious, extrasensory grappling contest.

Dean sprang back as Reggie's body began to convulse violently on the floor. "Shit, Shit!" his voice was raspy with fear. Reggie was possessed, and she was fighting it. He had never experienced anything as gut-wrenchingly horrifying as looking into her golden eyes, and _somehow knowing_, that it wasn't her. Grabbing his father's journal from his pocket, he began to tear trough the pages. He knew a lot more about demon possession than spirit possession. Did you use the same exorcism? He looked up at Reggie's thrashing body,

"Didn't I tell you to shoot it!" he growled, and willed her to hold on.

Insider her own head, Reggie fought the other _thing_, with everything she had. What happened to her if she lost? Did her spirit become homeless, and wander around disembodied? Did she become a ghost? Did she _die!?_ The fear of those possibilities drove her on. The problem was, the more she clashed and wrestled with the other entity, the more aware she became that it was, or had been, a person.

Flashes of another life, of someone else's memories, were invading her consciousness. She saw faces, smiling men and women that she, Reggie, had never known, and she became aware of a name, a name that was….familiar? Suddenly Reggie stopped thrashing against the disparate presence. As if surprised, it also retreated a little way.

_Marnie?_ Reggie cast the question at it, _Marnie Dyer?_

Worriedly, Dean reached for his shot gun, Reggie had suddenly gone stock still. _What are you going to do? Shoot her?_ Dean prayed he wouldn't have to answer that.

_Marnie?_ said Reggie questioningly. _Is that you?_

_I….I think… so._ A voice stuttered, as though the spirit could barely remember. She felt it latch onto the name. Its name. _My Name!_ The voice sounded clearly in Reggie's head. And then, suddenly, Reggie felt it all come crashing back. Back to Marnie, and back to her. The guilt was terrible, the pain, unimaginable.

_I killed him, I killed him! Oh God. It was my fault. He came to save me and the bastard killed him_! Reggie wasn't sure how one comforted a spirit, especially one who was trying to usurp your body, but Marnie's pain was too much for her to watch, to feel, and do nothing. She awkwardly reached out a phantom hand to the other soul. _It__'s alright, it's okay._

_No it's NOT!_ cried the other spirit. _That__'s_ _why I__'m like this. It was so pointless, _she sobbed. _I was already dead! He came for nothing, and then he died too! I was trying to get out to warn him, I...I was too late. And now, now I can__'t leave. _To Reggie, the spirit's pain was palpable.

_Who died Marnie? What happened?_

_Jerry._ The voice was barely a whisper. _My partner. When he found out Hutchon had me, he struck a deal. He was going to trade Hutchon his car and some getaway cash, to get me back. _Tears sounded in the phantom voice.

_I had to lay there, and finish dying, listening to Hutchon prepare the trap. Hutchon didn__'t want to get away, he wanted revenge. I, I wanted to warn Jerry, so I, I guess I…. stayed. But I didn't save Jerry. And now the bastard is still out there, still hurting people, and I'm stuck here, where I died. I can't do anything!_

Reggie understood that Marnie's guilt, over her partner, over her failure to stop Hutchon, were what was binding the gohst to the earth.

_It's alright Marnie. I'm here with my friends, they are going to stop Hutchon._

_No!_ cried the other spirit. _They don__'t know him. He's too smart. He'll kill them too!_

_No, _Reggie silently disagreed, _He won__'t, not if you help us._

Dean almost cried with relief when Reggie sat up and opened her eyes. She was Reggie again.

"That's my girl!" he crowed with relief.

"Way to kick that hell spawn spirit's ass!"

He looked around for the ghost, shotgun at the ready.

"She's not out there."

Dean froze.

"What do you mean 'she's not out there' ?"

Reggie took a breath,

"She's still in here" she tapped her head with her finger.

"WHAT?!" cried Dean.

"That's right. This isn't the ghost that's been hurting people. Her name is Marnie Dyer, she's the police woman who was killed by Hutchon, and she is going to stay with me and help us get him because he's too dangerous for us to go after on our own. Didn't I tell you she was a perfect candidate for a ghost?"

Reggie said the words in one huge rush, and jumped back, allowing Marnie to come to the fore, and deal with the explosion. With her purpose and identity renewed, Marnie's spirit was calm, cool, and collected.

"ARE YOU INSANE!" Dean bellowed.

"You can't just decide to let a ghost borrow your body. It's not a bloody time-share!"

"Hello Dean" said Marnie blandly.

Dean raised the shotgun, it was creepy as hell, the way they switched out like that.

"Oh put that away. We both know you aren't going to shoot Reggie."

No, but when she was herself again, he was going to strangle her.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"It's like Reggie said. I'm, or, at least I was, sorry haven't quite got this whole past tense thing sorted out yet, Marnie Dyer. I spent nearly four years of my life tracking Richard Hutchon, and I put his partner away. I can help you. You don't know Hutchon, he is one sly, nasty, sonofabitch. Without me, you, your brother and Reggie, are all in a lot more danger."

She waited for that to sink in.

Dean put his face in his hands. Only Reggie. Only Reggie would decide to have a conversation with the spirit that was possessing her, and then decide that said spirit would make a fitting ally.

"What if I say thanks but no thanks?"

"Well, it's really up to Reggie isn't it" said Marnie. She cocked her head, as if listening, and turned back to Dean.

"She says to suck it up Indiana. I'm not going anywhere."


	27. Chapter 27

Author's Note: Hi everyone. I'm sorry this update is so short, especially because, whatever was wrong with our internet connection earlier this week, keeps on happening. The tech guys are coming tomorrow, and our connection may be down for awhile, depending on what the problem is. Hopefully it won't be to long. I'll try to get ahead in the writing in the mean time. Happy Reading, see you in a bit.

ArtemiS

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Dean glowered at Reggie who wasn't Reggie.

"And when this is over you're just gonna what, pop out of that nice, comfortable body and go back to haunting this shack? I don't think so. Before you two decided to get all chummy, I'd say you were having a knock down, drag out fight about who was keeping that body, and I think this is a cleaver way for you to win."

Marnie shook her head.

"I've apologized to Reggie for that. You'll have to excuse me, I haven't been dead very long. I didn't know what to do. You start to fade so quickly, the part of you that knows you're you, and you fall into a routine, because that's all you have left. I 've only been here five days, and I was already drifting, forgetting. Reggie brought me back to myself. I know who I am again."

Dean swallowed. He remembered the fear and the vulnerability of his own out of body experience.

"I still don't believe you."

"Dean…." The patient, long-suffering voice was one-hundred percent Reggie.

"You're back. Good. Let's keep it that way."

She shook her head,

"No Dean, this is better. Marnie can be of some real help to you, and you and Sam will both be safer. I'll be safer. I promise you. I'm still here. And Marnie couldn't lie to me Dean. She couldn't trick or trap me." She placed a finger to the side of her head,

"There isn't enough room in here to allow us to be separate. Now that we have agreed to do this, we are literally occupying the same space. And that's a bit difficult. One of us has to lead, and the other has to concentrate on keeping our essences separate. It's obvious who's best for both jobs. Now will you please quit being so stubborn and trust me!"

And she was gone again, the sound of her mild irritation hanging in the air.

Marnie was regarding him calmly.

"Ready to go big man?" she wasn't really asking, it was a polite formality. Marnie had discovered Reggie's unusual talent, and the other spirit was telling her that while Dean was still furious, his anger stemmed from fear for her, and it was being over-ridden by the his common sense ("Yes, he really does have some", insisted Reggie, a tad bit defensively), at least for now.

Dean glared at her, but nodded. If Reggie was determined to do it, short of tying her down and forcing an exorcism, and he really had no idea what effect that might have if she were unwilling, there wasn't much he could do.

Reggie/Marnie and Dean exited the little shack, and nearly ran into Sam, who was hot-footing it away from where Dordle was packing up his suitcase, as fast as he could.

"There you are! God. Where the hell did you go? I had to put in an order for a sub-space dust-buster to get away from that guy."

He stopped cold, seeing the look on Dean's face. His brother looked like he wanted to kill something.

"What happened?"

"Oh you know, nothing much", he shot a venomous look at Reggie/Marnie,

"Reggie just got herself possessed, and then decided to go all Bobsie Twins with the spirit. They're" he sounded like he was strangling on the words,

"Sharing."

"WHAT?" cried Sam. Dean cast Reggie/Marnie a look that said, 'See, you are crazy'.

Sam turned on Dean,

"I left you alone for ten minutes. Ten minutes! How could you let this happen!"

Dean scowled at him,

"It's not like I was consulted! I told her it was nuts!" he made a helpless gesture, "She won't listen to me. Your turn."

So saying, he turned and stomped off towards the rest of the huts.

Dordle saw him coming and his face lit in a smile. Dean yanked his shot gun from concealment and racked it purposefully. Dordle shrank back and the hunter passed by him.

Sam looked at Reggie, and gulped. It wasn't Reggie. Then she blinked, and it was.

"It's alright Sam" she said, resting a hand on his arm.

"I promise you. I'm fine, I'm right here. You just won't be able to talk directly to me for a while. But I'll be aware of everything that's going on. And Marnie will be able to pass on anything I want to say. Oh right, " she gave herself a little smack in the forehead, and acting as casually as though she were introducing an old friend at a Sunday picnic, introduced the dead woman sharing her body.

"Sam" she said brightly,

"This is Marnie. She's the police woman Hutchon murdered. She and her partner were after him for a long time. She's going to help us catch his spirit and stop him." And then she blinked out, and the other person was back.

"Hello Sam", the woman's voice was warm, but different, even though it should have been the same.

"Uh Hi." This was so beyond weird.

"Are you going to be as stubborn about this as your brother?"

"Ummmm, yes?" Sam ventured.

"I really don't like the idea of you being in control of Reggie's body."

Reggie communicated with Marnie by way of a mental headshake, _No, he's much more open about this sort of thing than Dean. See, he's worried, but the fear and the anger are already ebbing. **He** trusts me. _Marnie smiled at Sam,

"Your concern for Reggie is touching, but I spent my life helping and protecting people, I promise you, she is safe with me."

And for reasons he couldn't quite explain, Sam believed her.

"Okay" he said. "So what do we do now?"

"Well, why don't we discuss that. That is if you can convince himself" she waved a hand at Dean's retreating back,

"To come back over here." She smiled again,

"You can tell him I promise not to bite."

Dean was pacing agitatedly along the edge of the woods, alternating between trying to talk himself into accepting the idea that Reggie's body was now no longer a one woman agency, and hatching ridiculous schemes to turn her back into a good, old-fashioned, one body, one spirit enterprise.

That was when he heard the screaming.

Out of habit, he turned his head to check Sam's location, even as his feet began to move towards the sound. As expected, Sam was not far behind him, going from casual to combat in the space of one stride. What did surprise him was that Reggie was right behind Sam, and it was more than clear that the personality behind this cool, collected, battle-ready woman, was not Reggie at all. This woman moved low, her body easily balanced, with the shot-gun, so abhorrent to Reggie, perfectly at home in her hands.

Dean didn't have time to decide how he felt about that. Screaming with the kind of wide-eyed terror only the sight of the monstrously impossible could bring, figures dressed in blue robes were tearing through the underbrush. They did not notice the three figures who moved toward, rather than away, from the sounds of death and horror.


	28. Chapter 28

Author's Note: Okay, we're back in business. I have been assured that all internet problems will cease and desisit as of now. I've made this a nice long chunk, to make up for the delay. Enjoy.

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In the small clearing, the body of a blue-robed woman was barely recognizable as having once been human. In a matter of seconds, the malignant spirit of Richard Hutchon, had gutted and skinned her like an animal. The first to arrive on the scene, Dean skidded to a halt, and drew on twenty-four years of experience with the repulsive and the grisly to keep his stomach in check. It wasn't revenge, it wasn't even murder It was torture. For the pure, twisted pleasure of it.

"Sweet Jesus" whispered Sam coming to a stop behind him. He looked away from the bloody tragedy.

But Reggie/Marnie didn't. The familiar, delicate face was locked in a stone-like, mask of passivity, as she gazed, unflinching, at the gruesome sight. Dean watched her kneel, and dispassionately begin to prod and poke the body with the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Hey" he began,

"I don't think Reggie should be seeing that", _or doing that_, he thought. It seemed almost sacrilegious, and he wasn't talking about the treatment of the dead body. Marnie looked up at him. He had been wrong, she was not impassive. The golden eyes were filled with loathing and sorrow.

"She understands."

"Understands what?", he demanded.

"That I must bear witness", the voice was jagged with her self-condemnation. The eyes fairly burned with the violence of her guilt and rage.

"It's my fault. This woman, the man your brother told me about. Richard Hutchon should never have escaped that night."

Dean looked at her.

"You couldn't have stopped him. Not unless you knew something about ghosts before going Casper yourself."

His frankness had the desired effect, the fires were banked, and the crippling guilt faded.

"You want to blame someone for this, punish someone?" he took a deep breath, this bastard had to be stopped,

"Help us get Hutchon."

Marnie nodded, relieved. He would allow her to help, to redeem herself, to purge the guilt, and finish what she started.

She knelt again.

"What...are you...looking...for", asked Sam, fighting his gag reflex, which made the words come in fits and starts.

"This", Marnie murmured, gently nudging the body onto its side. The cut was deep, so deep the bone of the shoulder blade was exposed. The three wicked slashes shaped a macabre monogram.

"H for Hutchon", guessed Dean, fury and disgust in every syllable.

"He takes great pride in his work. He was trained as a taxidermist, that was before he decided people made for more interesting trophies" Marnie's voice was savage.

"He and his son used to race, to see who could skin the victim quickest. Extra points for every minute you kept them alive during the process."

Sam blanched, and Dean clenched his jaw until it ached. Unhinging it and forming words around the legion of blistering curses and caustic repulsion that crowded his tongue was nearly impossible.

"His partner was his son..." he began, but the words were cut off by the sudden scream of the EMF.

The dark figure materialized directly behind Sam, the cruel, curved edge of a blade slicing towards the back of his neck.

"Down!" roared Dean, and Sam dropped with the instant obedience born of years of shared experience and trust. Dean levelled the shotgun and fired, once, twice.

The spirit wavered and... snapped back into focus.

It clawed at the empty air in front of it and Dean felt the force of the otherworldly blow slam into him, tossing him in a long, graceful arc, which ended with a sickening thud.

"Dean" cried Sam, scrabbling toward his fallen brother. He got no more than a few inches, before an immeasurable, invisible weight crushed down onto his back. Pinning him to the ground, it began slowly, slowly pressing the life from his body. He gasped and gabbled for air, not able to move so much as a finger to relieve the suffocating pressure. Every cell screamed for him to twitch, shift, irrationally believing that some change, some infinitesimal movement, might lift, if only for a second, the merciless burden.

_Crack!._ The thundering clap of a shotgun discharge rent air taut with preternatural energy, and shredded through phantasmal flesh.

_Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! _Each volley was sharply punctuated, as salt spewed through the spirit in a continuous, rolling barrage.

Somewhere, the blast of gunfire sounded. Dean swam through a thick cloud of grey toward green. His head screamed with agony as the verdant canopy of the Alabama woods wheeled into view.

_Sam. Sam. Sam._ His heart chanted the litany to his brain, which compelled his body act.

He slowly placed his hands against the damp ground, pushing himself up, until he could collapse against the trunk of the tree which had put an abrupt end to his flight.

_Sam. Sam._ _Reggie! _The whisper was insistent, Dean's hand closed around his gun. He looked toward the sound of the shots.

Reggie/Marnie was on her feet, having regained them after being caught and tossed onto her back by the edge of the blast aimed at Dean. The body moved with a kind of perfect, controlled harmony, the hands a blur of motion, smoothly reloading the shotgun after each salvo, faster than humanly possible.

It was what one body, with two minds in perfect accord, could achieve. Reggie's need to protect Sam and Dean united with Marnie's hate and expertise. The height of human physical potential realized, every detail anticipated and accounted for, data processed and signals sent to willing hands without hesitation or delay.

_Crack! Crack! Crack! _The salt shot sliced into the spectral abomination in a steady stream, without break or cease. The noxious molecules of the spirit lacerated, severed, and finally, scattered, by the unending assault.

Sam sucked air into his screaming lungs, and the dimming edges of his vision expanding to once more register colour and shape. He felt weak.

"Up! Get up!", the voice was incessant, persistent. He looked up to see Reggie/Marnie extending a hand toward him. She was surprisingly strong as she pulled him to his feet. Her eyes, he gulped, cops eyes, were scanning, watching for renewed danger.

"Help Dean." Sam looked for his brother. He sat propped at the foot of a large tree. Blood ran down his forehead, but his gun was steady in his hand. The dripping blood didn't seem to interfere with his vigilant gaze. Sam stumbled over to him.

"C'mon big bro" he murmured, leaning down and helping Dean to sling an arm around his neck. His hand hovered over the wound on his brother's head.

"Not now" growled Dean, his glance flashing around the small clearing, checking, checking, searching for the lurking threat.

"We got to go" he mumbled.

"Damn thing's practically immune to...the salt. It'll be back." He looked at Marnie/Reggie, who nodded. As quickly as possible, the three exited the woods. They were back among the empty shells of the out-buildings. Back in the sunlight.

"Hurry" pressed Dean. But, as they passed a small hut, with walls fading from blue into grey, Reggie/Marnie stopped abruptly, as though she had run into a brick wall.

"Reggie? I mean Marnie...I mean..." Sam came back to where she stood transfixed. Feeling stronger, Dean stood back, as Sam stepped up beside the woman, women.

"This is it" she whispered.

"This is where...where he died."

Driven by the compulsion of guilt, she walked toward the gaping entrance.

"No" said Sam, stepping in front of her. He saw her eyes,

"Let me go first", he capitulated.

So saying, he raised his shotgun and walked into the darkness. There was a muffled thump.

"Sam!" cried Reggie/Marnie and Dean in one voice, rushing through the door of the hut. Sam lay on the ground. Reggie dropped down beside him, Dean half kneeling, half falling beside her. Sam opened his eyes. Lunging up, he grabbed Reggie/Marnie,

and fussed his mouth to hers.

Dean felt his jaw drop. He had experienced a number of things in the last twenty minutes that had gone directly to the top of his, "I never want to see that again" list. But the sight of Reggie locked in his brother's arms, her mouth pressed hungrily to Sam's, well, it was climbing the charts.

"What the hell is going on!" He shouted it.

Reggie's hands came up, shoving back from Sam, her eyes were wide, and a trembling hand touched her lips.

"Marnie", the voice was not Sam's.

"Jerry", it was barely a whisper.

Sam's eyes rolled back in his head, and without warning, his body pitched violently backward, thrashing and twitching on the floor, throwing Reggie/Marnie clear.

She was back beside him in an instant, her hands fluttering and hovering over his frantically jerking limbs.

"Jerry, Jerry!" she cried, trying to calm him.

"Stop! Stop fighting him. He's a powerful psychic, you'll only hurt yourself, and him. Talk to him, Reggie says since you've got Sam and not Dean, he'll probably listen to reason."

Dean stumbled forward a step.

"Are you telling me" his voice began low, but rose to a roar as he continued,

"That my brother is being possessed, by the ghost of your partner!"

Reggie/Marnie ignored him.

Dean fell back against the wall. This was unbelievable, inconceivable and... insulting

"Hey!" he threw up his hands as Reggie/Marnie continued to urge Jerry to talk to Sam,

"On what planet is it _reasonable_ to _discuss_ sub-letting your body to a dead man!"

The world had gone crazy. Even by his standards, double spirit possession and supernatural homicide made for a full day.

Inside his own body, Sam was fighting a raging battle against a spiritual unknown. The force of Jerry's reaction to seeing Marnie had allowed the other spirit to shove him aside, but only for a moment. As he fought for control, he heard Reggie's voice in the distance. All of a sudden, the other presence released him. It seemed to step back. _Time out?_ It offered. Sam couldn't believe it. _Time out for what? This is my body. I'm sorry, but you can't stay here._

The other gave a little sigh and a nod. _Just listen, alright. My name is Jerry Cobb….._

Suddenly Sam went still. When he opened his eyes, like Reggie, it was clear, that while this was his brother, it was also most defiantly not.

"_Jesus Christ on a bike!"_ Dean's expletive resounded loudly in the sudden silence, as the two spirits stared at one another from behind their borrowed eyes.

"No, no, no, no ,no!" Dean's chanted denials snapped Reggie/Marnie out of her trance. She blushed wickedly.

_Sorry, oh, I'm sorry!_ Marnie cried in her head. _That was awkward, I didn't mean to, it was just, when I saw him, and then I kissed him and..._ Reggie gave a metaphysical sigh. _I know, it's alright. Jerry was your partner on more than one level. _

_Every level. _Came the reply.

_Just, try not to do that again. _There was vigorous phantasmal nodding.

"Sam?" said Dean with trepidation. This was just, not supposed to happen. What the hell did he say? do? He couldn't, alright, didn't want to, function without his brother.

"Dean" Sam's eyes were filled with apology. He knew how much his brother was going to hate this.

"Oh God!"

He rushed to explain.

"You don't' understand, what Hutchon did to him. What it did to Jerry when he couldn't save Marnie. What it's doing to him not to be able to leave here while Hutchon is still out there. I know what it feels like. To lose someone you love, the guilt of believing that you could have, should have, saved them. The need for revenge."

Dean's head was still shaking, but the motion was tired, defeated, no more than a reflex, he already knew what was coming next.

Sam spread his hands helplessly, his voice dark, and intense with remembered pain,

"I have to."

Dean sank down against the wall, the hand he swept through his hair, in a familiar gesture of frustration and disbelief, came away wet with blood. He felt beaten. He couldn't argue with that.

"Shit!"

Seeing his brother's distress, Sam tried to convince him.

"They work best as a team. Surely you, of all people, can understand that."

Dean looked up at him angrily,

"What about my team?!" he demanded.

Sam gave a helpless little shrug.

"It could be worse?" he offered.

"How!!?"

He shrugged again, "It could be you?"

Dean glowered.

"Which one of you is talking? I can't tell if you mean it would be worse if I were the one who was possessed, or if I were the one who was dead."

The return of Dean's biting tongue buoyed Sam. He gave his brother a tentative smile.

"How bad can it be?" he asked.

Dean exhaled deeply. He could handle this. _He could._ He'd handled worse and weirder. Maybe it would exorcise some of Sam's lingering demons, the ones who whispered that Jessica's death had been his fault. The ones that howled for vengeance.

"Well, that depends" he angled a disgruntled look at his brother...and, whatsit, Jerry, but his voice was mocking,

"Are you gonna kiss her again? Cause ghostly make-out sessions, I so don't need to see that."

Reggie/Marnie watched Sam laugh down into his battered brother's face.

_Are they always like this?,_ demanded the other spirit.

_Ummm, yeah, pretty much,_ replied Reggie.

_God, how do you stand it?_

There was a mental shrug. _You learn to love them for it. What they have, it's unique._

_Hmmmm, you learn to love them eh?_ The phantom voice echoed with speculation. Reggie gulped, there was a definite downside to this whole possession thing. You had no secrets.

_Just leave it!_

Sam dragged Dean to his feet. The random beeping of the EMF made all three, no, five, of them jump.

"Shit" snarled Dean, in all the spirit shifting and commotion, he'd nearly forgotten.

"C'mon, we've got to get out of here. We'll head back to the motel and re-group."

There were two terse nods of agreement. Sam's was a little jerky, he and Jerry were still working out the logistics of one body, two spirits.

They left the shack, Sam supporting Dean, heading for the impala.

"Nice car!"

Dean looked at his brother, no, at Jerry. It was just to weird, to see Sam's eyes looking admiringly at the impala, as though he'd never seen it before. It was just one more reminder of all the things that had gone wrong today.

"Just get in" muttered Dean.

"You can't drive!"

This from Marnie/Reggie.

Dean glared at her.

"You know how to drive a stick?" he asked with a sneer, innuendo in every word.

Reggie/Marnie glared at him. She hated it when he did that. Now, if she said yes, it would sound suggestive, and if she said nothing….well, then Dean drove.

_Oh, he thinks he's got you all figured out, doesn't he_, murmured Marnie in her head. _Allow me._

"Relax sparky, if you can do it, how hard can it be?"

Dean looked like his head was going to explode. Reggie took pity on him. They were all way too tense. Dean was feeling vulnerable, and the situation was more-or-less out of his control, she knew full well there was _nothing,_ he hated more than that.

"Let's just all calm down" she said soothingly, extending a placating hand.

"Why doesn't Sam drive?"

Dean frowned darkly, "Fine. If _Sam_ drives."

Sam/Jerry nodded. "No problem." He agreed. Jerry rolled phantom eyes, _Is he always like this? _

_When it comes to this car, absolutely. No one, but no one, messes with Dean's baby. _

The car ride back to the motel was filled with uncomfortable silence. Sam/Jerry and Dean sat in the front, while Reggie/Marnie tried to relax in the back. It was going to be a long day.


	29. Chapter 29

Author's Note: Well, really, it should be author's question. I'm just wondering what you guys prefer. Do you like the shorter updates more often, or would you prefer a little more time in between, and longer chapters? And when I say more time, I mean like, 48 instead of 24 hours, which is what I have been aiming for so far. Let me know what you think. Happy Reading.

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When they walked in the door of the small, shabby motel room, Reggie headed to the bathroom for the first aid kit, while Sam/Jerry and Dean launched into an automatic lock-down routine.

Out came the chalk and the salt and the cat's eye shell. The journal pages on protective symbols were well worn. Dean chose a few powerful signs from a dozen major North American, European, and Asian cultures. Phoenician were always good, he added a few more conoids. Not only were they really ancient, but the Phoenicians had been major travelling traders, dealing with all those different places and peoples had lead them to adopt and develop some really good, all purpose protections. Reggie came out of the bathroom carrying a bowl of warm water and the first aid kit.

"What is that?" she asked, setting them down on the table, "Linear B?"

Dean shook his head, was there anything she didn't know something about?

"No, Linear B is Phoenician letters applid to the oral remnants of Linear A, the language of the Mycanean Greeks. This is more mainstream Phoenician. But it'd be closely related."

"Mmmm" she nodded

"I'm familiar with the transitional Greek alphabet, I just thought actual Phoenician would look, well, more distinct." He could see the information being filed away somewhere in that enormous brain of hers. He'd bet anything that twenty years form now, she'd be able to pull that tidbit out as if it had been yesterday.

She studied the symbols for a moment.

"What's this one?" she asked, only now it was Marnie, with narrowed eyes.

He looked at the triangular character. It was capped with a horizontal line with two upright hooks on the ends, and surmounted by a circle. It looked a bit like a bad stick figure wearing a dress.

"It's the sign of Tanit. She was the chief goddess of Carthage. But before she became prominent in the 5th century. B.C., it was also associated with Baal-Hammon, and Baal-El." He shrugged, "

It's good for keeping just about anything nasty away."

"Yeah" she muttered, Reggie again,

"Because Tanit and Baal are nastier than just about anything else out there!"

There she went again.

"Yeah, whatever, why do you ask?"

"Because, Marnie thinks that that symbol is carved into the knife Hutchon uses to kill and skin his victims."

"Shit!"

Reggie nodded.

"Yeah, this could be bad."

"Sam" Dean barked.

"Get on the net, and see what you can find out about the cult of Tanit at Carthage, and knives."

Reggie/Marnie gulped,

"Sacrificial knives" she corrected softly.

Dean looked at her.

"What do you know?" he demanded.

"Ummm" she fidgeted, "Let's see." She looked up at him.

"You're not going to like it."

"Tell me."

She nodded,

"Okay, ummm, in Western Phoenician cultures, especially at Carthage, there was a wide-spread practice of human sacrifice" her voice dropped,

"Especially child sacrifice."

"Jesus" muttered Dean.

"Yeah, umm, the children were usually slaughtered and then burnt, in special sanctuaries called tofet. There was a large one discovered at the Temple of Tanit in Carthage, and in the Bible, the Ammorites are implied to have sacrificed children to Molech. But a lot of scholars actually think that Molech isn't a god, but the name given to the practice of sacrificing children, and that the sacrifices were more likely meant for one of the incarnations of Baal. Most likely Baal-Hammon, or Baal-Adir."

She stopped and took a deep breath. Dean looked at her in amazement.

"How do you know this stuff!" he demanded.

She shrugged,

"The study of history is all connected. Once, I was trying to trace the origin and authenticity of the Donation of Constantine, that's a majorly important piece during the medieval power struggle between church and state, and it mentions child-sacrifice. So, you check out child-sacrifice, to find out where that idea may have come from, it could help you to date, or authenticate etc." she shrugged.

"It's all part of what I do, did." Her voice darkened. But Dean wasn't paying attention, on the table, the bowl of water cooled and the first aid kit sat forgotten.

"Did Hutchon specialize in children?" he asked, prying the answer would be no.

"No" said Marnie,

"He didn't. He didn't discriminate. For Hutchon, killing was about power. His power. He liked to play God. I don't think the knife's history was important. I think that it did a good job, and he liked it. Period."

Dean jerked a shoulder,

"So he's not picky, just twisted and homicidal. Great." His voice was dry. He swung toward his brother, who was seated in front of the computer.

"Sam, Anything?"

Sam/Jerry looked up.

"She's got it about right. Sacrificial knives were usually made from obsidian, so Hutchon's isn't authentic. Ummm but I don't think that matters" he perused the website he'd found, "The knife was intended to be a tool to free the spirit from the body, so it could fly to the mother, Tanit. The bodies were burnt to ensure that the spirit would be released. I think all you need to make an effective sacrificial vehicle, is the symbols"

Dean was looking at him oddly,

"How do you know the knife wasn't made of obsidian?" he asked.

Sam looked up absently,

"Because I saw it. Well, I mean Jerry saw it. Hutchon used it to kill him."

"Me too" said Marnie.

Dean shuddered,

"How can you talk about it so calmly!" he cried.

Marnie/Reggie shrugged, and looked over to Sam/Jerry for confirmation,

"Once you're dead, the fear of death is just kinda, moot. And pain, well, to be honest, you don't really remember it. Not the physical stuff at least." Her tone implied that, once your spirit became detached from the body, emotional pain only intensified. Dean understood clearly, both these spirits would be tormented until they destroyed Hutchon, but what about Sam and Reggie?

He looked at her,

"And, it doesn't…bother you?" he asked,

"Knowing, experiencing, how they died?"

She cocked her head at him, touched by his concern.

"Not really. They barely remember."

"How can you forget _dying!"_

She shrugged,

"Like Marnie said, it just, isn't as important to the dead as it is to the living. Death is only an end for those left behind." Dean struggled with the reality of that for a moment. Somehow, it wasn't comforting but discomforting, to hear death stripped of all its dark glory. He decided to think about something else.

"Sam, any chance we can find out about what happened to Hutchon's body?"

"Way ahead of you man" said Sam from behind the computer. He chuckled to himself.

"What's so funny?" asked Dean.

"Nothing" replied Sam,

"It's just kinda weird not to have to hack into the police database for a change, Jerry has a password. Oh", now he sounded disappointed.

"But I won't be able to keep using it. It'll be taken off the computer pretty soon."

"Okay" he clapped his hands together,

"We're in business. Let's see….Uh-oh."

"Nope" said Dean shaking his head,

"I have filled my shit-end-of-the-stick quota for today. Reggie got possessed, we almost got killed by a maniacal spirit, and then you got possessed. No more uh-ohs, we've already got one helluvan unholy mess."

"Sorry" said Sam/Jerry, shaking his head,

"Hutchon's body was cremated. It says so right here. Only three days after his death. They were in a hurry."

"What the hell?" muttered Dean.

"If the body's been burnt, how's he still here, and what's more, how come he's not tied to anything. Marnie and Jerry were both tied to the places where they were killed, at least until they picked up a couple of nice, mobile units," he glared at his brother and Reggie.

"But Hutchon seems to be able to move around at will. Were there any severed or missing body parts?"

Sam/Jerry looked up sharply, there was a pause while the two communicated silently.

"I think we figured it out." He said, his tone implied it wasn't good.

"Okay, so tell us."

"Well, if blood counts as an extra body part…"

Dean slapped a hand across his eyes, blood was always tricky. It literally carried life, the spirit in physical form. It was powerful, and unpredictable.

"Where?"

"On the knife."

Dean frowned, "What?"

"Before I went to get Marnie, I left a message for the night-shift sergeant, Mac. I knew he would check it when he came on duty at 11. Hutchon may have killed me, but there was not way I was going to let him get away. I went earlier, without backup, because, even though I knew she was probably already dead" his voice ground to a halt as looked at Reggie/Marnie, who rose from her seated position on the bed and walked over to take his hand. He continued,

"Even though I knew she was probably already dead, I had to try. To save her." His voice was thick with anguished guilt. Wordlessly, Reggie/Marnie gently stroked is hair. Dean scowled.

_It's not her._ He reminded himself. _And anyways, you don't have the right to care. She doesn't belong to you. _That didn't mean he had to like it though, seeing her gently caress his brother's face. _Have some compassion!_ His conscience snarled at him. Dean tried, he really did.

"Anyway," Sam/Jerry blew out a steadying breath,

"There was no way Hutchon was going to jail. He slit his own throat with the knife."

"WHAT!" yelled Dean.

"The paper said he was shot down by the police when they arrived on the scene!"

Jerry shook his head.

'They would have done that to comfort the community, and to make it seem like we had some control over what happened. Nothing scares people more than a murdering maniac, who calls all the shots, even takes himself out. It helps people to feel safe."

"_Fuck, fuck, fuck!" _Dean swore

"What? What's wrong?" asked Marnie/Reggie. She didn't have the advantage of being tapped into one of the Winchesters' brains, and was getting left behind.

Jerry/Sam shook his head.

"Suicides are always special cases, they can often do things that other ghosts can't and, if you add that to the fact that the murder weapon was designed to "free the spirit", and was his personal power catalyst, it probably means that Hutchon can go anywhere, and do anything, he wants. His spirit is tied to the dagger, but not in a physically binding way."

"Okay, so if we destroy the dagger, we still destroy Hutchon right?" asked Reggie/Marnie.

"Yeah" said Dean dryly,

"But we have to get to it first."

Marnie shook her head,

"Of course, it'll be in the evidence lock-up. How in God's name are we going to get to it there?"

Sam/Jerry went back t the computer.

"Even better" continued Dean,

"His special death and the effect of the knife also seem to have made him resistant, if not totally immune, to rock salt. Which means we've got no effective weapons to use against him while we try to figure out how to get the knife."

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sam/Jerry shoved back from the table violently.

"What now!" demanded Dean.

Sam/Jerry looked up at him.

"There's an alert in the file. Missing evidence."

"Not the bloody knife!" begged Dean. Sam/Jerry gave a sharp, angry nod.

"It says here that the security cameras and the guard didn't see a thing. It was there one minute, and gone the next."

Marnie/Reggie sank to the ground.

"It's him. It's Hutchon. He never made a kill without that knife." She thought of the woman in the woods, of a knife, _the knife_, plunging towards Sam's back.

"He's killing again, and he's got it."

"We are so screwed" muttered Sam/Jerry.

"Seven ways to Sunday" affirmed Dean.


	30. Chapter 30

Author's Note: Okay, I'm gonna try and go with longer updates a little less often, if for no other reason than the fact that this story will have a million chapters if I continue at the current rate. Never fear, I'll still try to post at least every other day. Enjoy!

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"Can I just say again, for the record, how much I _hate_ this plan" said Dean. He and Reggie/Marnie were sitting in the impala. The car was parked in a dark alleyway, behind one of Cullman's lovely, sub-standard apartment buildings.

"You were out-voted" she said calmly.

"Yeah" he growled, "I remember, two to one."

"Four to one" she corrected.

He rolled his eyes.

"Tell me again, why you think this will work?"

She shrugged, "I don't know that it will. I can't even honestly say that I hope it will. But we can't think of anything else."

Dean looked into her golden eyes. She was afraid, and she was so goddamed brave. It infuriated him, that this was the only choice he was left with. She wasn't supposed to have to be brave, that was his job.

"_Fuck!" _Reggie shivered. When Dean swore in that soft, deep tone, it always reminded her of the night on the balcony, when he had saved her from the demon. That night, he had been afraid, but the fear had been eclipsed by necessity and action. Tonight, he had nothing to do but stew, and it was building inside him, all the tension and the anger.

_He's worried about you, s_aid Marnie in her head.

_I know that. But he just doesn't understand. He doesn't realize that it can't always be him. This great sacrifice he makes, putting himself out there, everyday. He does it so others won't have to. And it kills him that it can't be enough. That he can't save everyone, can't protect everyone; that sometimes, we have to take our own risks, that sometimes, someone else has to be the hero, because he understands what being a hero costs._

Reggie took a deep breath, and mustered a smile.

"Quit pouting, you're just upset because you think I'll steal your thunder. If I kick old Dicky's ass, there won't be anything left for you to do."

"Yeah" he nodded and returned her forced smile.

"You make sure to leave some of the fun for me." But what he really meant was, don't go. Stay, with me, where you're safe.

Reggie opened the door and climbed out into the night, taking a small steal box and a loaded shotgun with her. She ducked to look at him through the open door, his eyes were almost black with tightly controlled emotion,

"Be careful" he said, his voice vibrating with the same apprehensive darkness that filled his eyes.

"I will" she murmured back.

"I'll be fine, Marnie's a professional, remember. And we know something he doesn't."

On that note, before her false brevity gave way, she slammed the door and stood back, waiting for the impala to pull away.

_Okay. _She said to Marnie, watching the warmth of red tail-lights disappear and resisting the urge to run after the departing car, _Give me the rundown one more time._

_Right_ replied Marnie, _Here's the plan. Hutchon's got the damn knife, and we need it to destroy him. The only way to get the knife is if Hutchon appears and attempts to make a kill. This is a close as we can get to coming to him, so, we get him to come the rest of the way to us._

_Right_ said Reggie. God she was terrified. _And how do we do that again? Get him to come to us._

_We make him an offer he can't refuse, e_xplained Marnie.

_This is where he caught me, the first time. I'd gotten a tip about a man fitting Hutchon's description coming and going from an apartment here, and I came by to check it out on my way home from work. _She shook her phantom head, _It was stupid, to come alone. I should have known better._

_Okay, _said Reggie, S_o if it was stupid to come alone last time, why are we coming alone this time?_

_Because _answered Marnie_, Hutchon is smart, way to smart to pop out with all three of us around after what happened this afternoon. And you aren't alone, remember, I'm right here. Anyway, clearly, this was his new hunting ground. He's a creature of habit, dead or alive, he'll be skulking around, hunting for prey. He's got one hell of an ego on him, but it doesn't make him dumb. However, if it's just you, considering you're the one who filled his badass spirit self with salt shrapnel this afternoon, I'm guessing he'll show up to even the score._

_And I do what when that happens? _Asked Reggie.

'Run screaming' said her common sense. 'Actually' it prompted, 'Why wait. If you get going now, you can be half-way back to the motel _before_ the murderous, psychotic ghost gets here.'

Reggie shook herself. If she left now, Hutchon would just find another victim, one who wasn't prepared to defend herself.

_Reggie?_ Marnie's calm, cool, professional attitude washed over her, the other spirit easing into control of the shared body. The hands stopped shaking, the breath evened out. Marnie was not afraid.

_When the time comes, _she said, in answer to Reggie's earlier question, _You don't do anything. Just leave it to me._

Shunted cosily into a corner of her consciousness, away from fear and doubt, Reggie gave a mental nod.

_Ready?_ Asked Marnie.

_Ready. _Replied Reggie.

The building was small, only four stories, and it squatted like some sort of decrepit troll on the edge of Cullman's tiny downtown. Reggie shook her head, and tried to ease that image from her mind, as she eyed the dark doorway with its carpet of trash and broken glass, and the human gargoyles that guarded it. The one that naturally followed had her being swallowed by the troll and never coming back out. Mustering her courage, she passed the reigns back to Marnie.

_Where are we going?_ she asked, as the other spirit guided the body up the shallow front steps, over the litter and refuse, past the leering humanoid ogres, and into the mouth of hell.

_Apartment 22B_ came the reply. _That's where the nark said he saw Hutchon._

_And you think what? a_sked Reggie, _That Hutchon is homesick, so he's come back to roost? All the other killings have been near the plantation, where he died, why do you think he'll be here now?_

_Because_, answered Marnie, _Like I said before, he's a creature of habit. My guess is he's been back here everyday since he died, pickings were just easier down at the plantation, what, with all those loony alien enthusiasts running around. No, _the shared head shook, _After this afternoon, I'm betting he'll have come back here for good. Like most killers, Hutchon is essentially a coward. He doesn't stay where there's a possibility of being trapped, and he doesn't like to be hurt. He only arranged that showdown with Jerry and I because we caught his son and put him in prison, on death row to be exact. _The tone of her voice bespoke satisfaction.

_He was scheduled for execution that night. Hutchon was driven to break his pattern by fury and a need for revenge. But ghosts, and I speak from experience, are all about patterns, and since Hutchon already had his all laid out **before** he died, I'm guessing nothing could keep him from those learned behaviours now._

_Okay, _said Reggie, as they rounded the corner on the last flight of stairs that would take them to the third floor and Apt. 22B, _I'll buy that. But I still don't see why you think he'll come after us._

_Simple, we'll be in his personal space, and this afternoon, you hurt him. To be a target for Hutchon, all you have to do is be available, to him, anything else is just a bonus. Believe me, _the other spirit's voice was harsh with certainty and disgust,

_He'll come._

"Great" Reggie's whisper echoed in the long dark hallway. She almost felt like she could see it wind its way through the dank, stagnant air. She steeled herself, and followed the quiet echo of her own voice into the darkness.

The door of apartment 22B was nondescript. It had once been green, but a healthy coating of grime had turned it the general, muddy brown that signified years of neglect. Marnie tried the handle, it turned easily.

_See_, she attempted a lame joke, _He's inviting us in._

Reggie did not respond. She didn't' have to, the other spirit was perfectly capable of feeling her trembling terror. Somehow, walking into the den of a madman, a dead madman, because you were hoping to confront his insane spirit in a insane attempt to procure the means of stopping that spirit, which was a homicidal maniac, was far more frightening than facing down a demon. That she had done on the fly, out of necessity, to survive. Walking into the lion's den, hoping he would show up and try and eat you, was a whole different kettle of fish.

"Daniel's got nothing on us", she muttered aloud as the door creaked open.

Reggie/Marnie stepped inside the small room, Reggie's fear kept at bay by Marnie's steady presence. It was surprisingly normal, if a bit rundown. There had even been some attempt to keep it reasonably tidy. _Drip, drip, drip. _The small sound was loud in the silence and made her jump.

_Nothing sinister_ said Marnie, directing their gaze toward the single window. There was a leak in the roof, and a bucket, full of last night's rainwater stood beneath it.

_What were you expecting?_ asked Marnie, _Human heads mounted on the walls? Throw rugs made of his victims' skin?_

_That's disgusting, _replied Reggie, _And yeah, kinda. You said he was a taxidermist, and thought humans made for interesting trophies. _

Marnie shook their head, _No, it's the kill, the pain, the torment that's the trophy. Once the body is dead, it's no fun anymore._

Reggie's metaphysical self shuddered. _Maybe we don't talk about his huh?_ she suggested.

_Sure_ agreed Marnie. There was a pause,

_Then stop thinking about it so much!_ Reggie chastised the other spirit.

Just because they chose to communicate by silent conversation, didn't mean they had too. They were, essentially, one. What one thought, or knew, the other thought and knew. They communicated the way they did because it lent a veneer of normalcy to their bizarre situation.

_Sorry_ murmured Marnie. She waited a beat.

_Since all we have to do is kill time,_ Reggie winced. _Okay, bad choice of words, _amended the other spirit, _Since we have to wait, can I just take this opportunity to say how grateful I am. I mean, it's not like I've had a lot of experience with this sort of thing, but I'm guessing you agreeing to help me, and, you know……share your body with me,_ she felt awkward saying it. _I think it must take someone pretty special._

Reggie rolled her eyes, she hated praise, it made her so uncomfortable, no one knew more than she, how undeserving she was. Feeling Reggie's denial as if it were her own, Marnie began to protest, but Reggie cut her off.

_We had a deal about that, remember. You know the things I have **never let anyone else** even come close to knowing. You promised to stay out of it. And besides_ she admonished mockingly, _This is really not the time or place for touchy feely, and when you say it out loud like that, metaphorically speaking_ she clarified, since Marnie's voice was actually sounding inside her head, _I sound like freaking lunatic._

_You sound like Dean,_ muttered Marnie.

_You take that back….._

Reggie never finished her mental demand, and all that escaped her mouth was a startled squeak, as Marnie threw them head-long to the ground, just in time for Hutchon's beloved dagger to slice through air, rather than flesh. Scrambling to her feet. Reggie/Marnie faced down the grim spectre. As in life, Hutchon's ghost's physical demeanour belied his twisted nature. It was small, scraggily, and sort of tattered looking around the edges. _As though it were cut away from its body_ thought Reggie, thinking of the sacrificial dagger and its powers.

The murderous apparition raised a phantom hand to strike at the young woman and, grinning evilly, brought up its fist to deliver a wicked, invisible blow.


	31. Chapter 31

Author's Note: Sorry to have left you guys hanging. Enjoy.

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Nothing happened.

It was something, thought Reggie/Marnie, to see an evil ghost caught with a look of consternation and confusion on its face. It was also very satisfying.

"Sorry Dicky" said Reggie/Marnie, laughing aloud as the ghost gave its hand a little shake, as if the malfunction were caused by some loose, paranormal wiring.

"That dramatic finish to your fatal last stand came with a few unexpected consequences."

She moved like lightening, one body, two minds, and gripped the spirit's hand. He gibbered unintelligibly, and the ghostly flesh began to smoke where she touched him.

"I know, I know" she said, shaking her head, and grinning darkly at him,

"I shouldn't be able to touch you. You're a ghost now, you're unstoppable, invincible" she mocked him,

"To bad for you that whole Ghostbuster thing turned out to be true too." She twisted the spirit's wrist, forcing him to drop the knife, while holding up her free hand, palm out, toward his face. On the skin was drawn a familiar looking image. It looked sort of like a stickman in drag.

"You know what this is?" she asked, stepping back and picking up the knife. She showed him the blade, its glinting surface scared by the same figure,

"It's the sign of Tanit. This blade is hers, and when you went and slit your own throat with it, in that pathetic excuse of a final power play, you made yourself subject to her power." She grinned again, Marnie was taking a deep, primal pleasure in the spirit's fear and confusion, and its dismay. It turned out, Reggie could sense the ghost's feelings as easily as a human's.

"And mine."

Inside her head, Reggie urged Marnie to quit toying with Hutchon.

_C'mon. I know you've been waiting for this for a long time, but we still have to get back to the plantation, and melt down the damn knife before he's gone for good. We did what we came to do. We got the bloody knife, let's go._

Marnie silently capitulated, and, picking up the metal box, also covered in Phoenician symbols, threw the knife inside and shut the lid. The spirit looked panicked.

"That's right" said Marnie/Reggie, backing towards the door,

"Once it's in here, you can't sense it, can't find it. It's gone, and soon, you will be too."

As she turned to go out the door, the desperate ghost reached out, succeeding in tossing her to the floor, but yanked back its hand with an inhuman cry of pain, as it flapped the singed limb.

Reggie/Marnie propped herself up and shook her head. Rubbing her sore shoulder with one hand she undid the first few buttons on Sam's shirt with the other, exposing pale skin covered in black symbols.

"Sorry, no dice Dicky, I'm immune."

And immunity had come at a cost. She'd stood in the bathroom for more than an hour, while Sam/Jerry carefully drew the symbols onto her flesh were she couldn't reach. (Of course, it had been the longest hour of his life for Dean, who'd had to wait outside, left to imagine what else might be going on behind the closed door.)

Reggie/Marnie gave a sudden gasp, as the entire bucket of rainwater emptied over her head.

_Told you he was smart,_ said Marnie silently.

_Yeah_, shivered Reggie, _Thank God for no-smudge, waterproof eyeliner! _It was all they'd had on hand at the time.

_That was a little too close, _Reggie said to Marnie. _It was only a fluke that the symbols didn't wash off. We'd better get out of here before he comes up with anymore clever ideas._

_Agreed_ said Marnie, as they climbed to their feet.

But she couldn't resist taunting Hutchon once more as the headed for the door again. She waved a finger over her exposed chest.

"C'mon" she jeered him, "Take you best shot." He flailed his phantom arms at them ineffectually.

Marnie shook her head.

"Wherever this is" she tapped the symbols on her chest,

"You can't touch me. Say goodnight Dicky darling. We're sending you straight to hell."

Reggie sensed the imperceptible change in the spirit's mood. Hope, it shot through him.

_Uh-oh Marnie!_ She cried, _I don't think you should have said that! _

She was right. Hutchon was smart, and he was in dire straights, Marnie's words had unwittingly lead him to the weakness in their defences. Every part of Reggie's body had been covered by the symbols. Except the ones Hutchon would be able to see. They hadn't wanted to tip him off. That meat leaving her neck and face exposed.

_"Oh shit!"_

The exclamation reverberated with the echoing intensity of the two spirits' shared dread, as unseen hands closed around her throat.

Reggie/Marnie clawed futilely at the phantom hands as they squeezed, slowly choking the life from her. She couldn't even use the power of the symbols on her hands to counteract him. Hutchon wasn't touching her, he was standing on the other side of the room, well away from the smouldering threat of Reggie/Marnie's inscribed palms.

_Do something!_ cried Reggie as the pressure intensified, and her lungs began to shriek for air.

_I can't, I_ _can't. _Marnie wanted to scream, or pant, but she hadn't the breath.

_Oh God, not again, s_he thought, as Hutchon's leering face appeared above her. Her vision began to dim and darken at the edges as their organs, deprived of oxygen, began to shut down. Everything else faded away until there was only his loathsome visage.

_Oh please, _Marnie prayed to whatever deity might be listening, _Don't let that be the last thing I see before I die, not again._

_It's not you that's going to be dying! c_ried Reggie, in response to Marnie's morbid thoughts.

_Stop that! s_he snapped at the other spirit. Marnie might be distracted by her disturbing past experience, but Reggie wasn't.

_I am not accepting this_ she told herself firmly, ignoring the panic-inducing feel of her strength slowly ebbing from her limbs, and the persistent screaming of her lungs. _This whole, crazy, insane, nightmare-come to life journey is not ending like this. I will not have it! You faced down a demon for crying out loud, what's a little ghost? _

_Besides, you promised, you promised Camille that you would be alright. If you don't come back, she'll blame herself. What about your mother, and Abby? What about when they find out that you lied to them and ran off, and then got killed! They'll never know why. God knows how long it will even be before they find out, you've done such a good job of covering, who'll even miss you for the first couple of months? What about Sam? What about Dean!? He'll **never **forgive himself! _

Thinking of her family, of her friends and the Winchesters, gave Reggie renewed strength. Even though her body was exhausted and her consciousness was fading slowly toward oblivion, she managed to reach out for her gift. Without time or strength for finesse, she wadded up a ball of her fear, and the tingling desperation that came with her disturbing proximity to death, and hurled it at the spirit of Richard Hutchon, praying it would be enough.

She felt him hesitate, felt the sudden loosening of the invisible chains around her neck. Letting Marnie deal with their heaving body, hacking violently as it sucked in huge breaths, Reggie prepared to launch another blow, knowing one would never be enough, but let out a little scream instead, as the apartment window exploded, showering her in shards of glass.

The boom of the shotgun's rapport echoed in her ears. Dean leapt through the shattered window and rolled easily to his feet. He lashed out at Hutchon's spirit with a long metal bar made of twisted iron rods. Forcing the bellowing spirit back, he reached down and hauled Reggie/Marnie to her feet.

He flashed his trademark grin,

"Miss me?" he asked nonchalantly.

Dean had sat behind the wheel of the impala giving voice to a steady stream of obscenities for all of five minutes before turning the car around. She could handle it? Marnie was a professional? She'd be fine? The image of her haunted golden eyes tormented him. Just let her go all by herself? The absolute hell he would!

He'd managed to retain enough self control not to go charging directly into the building, but had sat across the street, and watched Reggie/Marnie walk slowly up the front steps of the dilapidated building, past the leering human garbage, with her head held high and her face impassive. He' d managed to force himself to wait, another whole five minutes, before jumping out of the car and heading for the fire-escape and Apt. 22B.

"Wha, what? What are you doing here?" Reggie/Marnie managed to get out, as Dean scooped up the metal box and shoved it into her arms.

"This…." She couldn't finish. Her mind was reeling. Both Marnie and Reggie were confused and a little disoriented, and both spirits were trying to deal with the trauma in their own, separate ways, and it was causing their shared body some problems. Reggie/Marnie gripped the box tightly. That was simple, basic, hold onto the box, it's important. They could do that. The focus helped them to gather their scattered consciousnesses, she finished her earlier thought.

"This isn't the plan" she said, knowing that it sounded both stupid and ungrateful.

Dean just raised his eyebrows, as he herded Hutchon's malignant spirit into a corner,

"I told you I didn't like it" he reminded her calmly.

"But, but, you can't just go changing….." she trailed off, watching in fascination as Hutchon's spirit spat at Dean like a caged animal, backing steadily away from the iron ……

"What is that?" she asked.

"This" he brandished the makeshift weapon,

"Consecrated wrought iron. Spirits hate it. Don't know why I didn't think of it before."

Shotgun in one hand, iron truncheon in the other, he nudged her towards the window.

"C'mon, you can thank me later, time to go. We're waking up the neighbours."

Sure enough, the shotgun blasts had done just that. There were lights coming on all over the building, and confused, angry voices sounded in the hall.

"Right" replied Reggie/Marnie,

"Time to go."

Still clutching the box, she scrambled out the broken window, Dean following behind, keeping a careful eye, and the shotgun, trained on Hutchon.

Once on the fire escape, Dean motioned for Reggie to climb down the rickety stairs that crawled up the side of the building, keeping the shotgun at the ready, covering their escape. When she finally hit the ground, he tossed her the gun over the railing. Marnie caught it with practised ease, and swung it up in one smooth motion, to safeguard his descent.

Hutchon's ghost made no attempt to follow them. Without speaking, they made their way to the impala, Dean holding Reggie/Marnie lightly by the arm. She didn't protest. They were both feeling a bit rattled by her close call in the apartment.

"At least all the damn dust around here is good for something" he muttered, stopping to trace the sign of Tanit into the thick layer of dirt which overlaid the windows and hood of the car.

"That ought to keep him out for now" he said, dusting his hands and climbing in beside Reggie. She nodded. She swallowed hard as Dean turned the key in the ignition and thrust the car into gear. She wanted to shake, or cry, or scream, or climb into Dean's lap and cling to his strong, stable presence until the world became the simple, safe place it had once been. But she couldn't do any of those things.

_You could you know, _said Marnie, _I guarantee he wouldn't mind. _

_No I can't!_ returned Reggie forcefully. She could not allow herself to begin to depend on Dean, not matter how great the temptation. Her strength, her emotional safety, was in her self reliance. She was her own foundation, she wouldn't tie her sense of self to another. Wouldn't be dependant on anyone for anything, least of all to be the anchor of her very identity, because that is what he would become. But God! less than three minutes ago, she'd nearly become the third post mortem victim of a vicious killer. Her hands threatened to tremble.

_Don't do that!_ Marnie's voice was sharp, as was the other spirit's emotional jab. _You can't think about it. I know that you aren't experienced yourself, but I am, and you can borrow that from me. So go ahead. Technically, you've already had your first kill and your first close call. You've screamed, and cried, and thrown up over it. Just let it go. _Reggie nodded, letting the memories and the controlled numbness that had allowed Marnie to face the possibility of death everyday in her past life, expand through her.

She began to calm down. Beside her Dean was scowling darkly, tension crackled in the air between them. He finally broke the silence.

"I should never have let you go alone." His tone was accusatory, and Reggie couldn't tell who he was blaming, himself or her.

"I was fine." She said firmly.

"Oh yeah" he shot back, the adrenaline that had steeled his nerves and allowed him to act when he'd seen her immobilized by that goddamned bastard, her gentle face twisted with fear and pain as he had slowly smothered her life away, was fading. His head was buzzing and his heart was pounding. _He's furious. _Thought Reggie, as Dean's ragged emotions cut into her.

"Cause that's how you looked. While you were pinned to the ground and turning blue, fine. Yep, fine, that's the word I'd use" his voice was sharp with sarcasm.

"Hey" Reggie's own temper began to fire,

"I was handling it."

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" he snarled.

"When exactly were you handling it? When you were being tossed around like a ragdoll, or when you were being strangled."

"Listen" she said, trying to keep her latent feelings of fear from affecting her response, but having a difficult time reigning in her anger.

"I appreciate your help, but I had already broken his hold _before_ you came charging though the window like Rambo on steroids, with both guns blazing!"

"Oh yeah" he shot back,

"And how'd you manage that? Magic?"

She just looked at him.

"Oh" he said, nonplussed, remembering her gift.

"It works on ghosts too?"

"Apparently" she responded. The sudden change in pace, from accusatory to inquiring doused their earlier antagonism. For a moment, they sat in silence.

"So" said Reggie/Marnie,

"Now we have to go back to the plantation to get rid of this thing?"

"Yep. To be sure, it's always best to destroy the spirit where it was created, and since this bugger has proved to be kinda resistant to traditional methods…." He trailed off, but she got it. To be safe, they'd take every precaution, and that meant returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak.

"Sam should already be there. The sight should be prepped, and I bought some high octane, hot burning fuel. It should go pretty quickly."

"And as soon as it's melted, he should be gone, right?"

"Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars" he affirmed.

"Okay" she took a breath and asked the question that was weighing on her mind.

"We've got, got to open the box to destroy the dagger. Don't you think he'll show up when we do that?"

Dean nodded grimly. "Probably."

Reggie slumped back in her seat. _Oh God! I don't want to have to do this again._ She thought, remembering Hutchon' s cruel smile as his face had filled her fading vision. _I can't._

_Yes, yes we can. _Said Marnie inside her head. _This time we won't be alone._ Reggie looked at Dean. His face was set in hard, enigmatic lines. She could feel him bracing himself for what was to come. He was so pragmatic, so involubly prepared and willing, to do whatever it took.

_He does it. Sam does it. They do it over and over and over. Surely you can do it one more time, s_he admonished herself. She sucked in another breath, her throat felt raw. She lifted a hand to her sore neck. Her eyes narrowed. The bastard had tried to kill her, damn right she'd do it again. She do him one better, she was personally going to sign his ticket to hell.


	32. Chapter 32

Author's Note: Okay, I swear I wrote all this Sam, Dean, stuff before Born under a Bad Sign aired. And big finish! Enjoy.

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Small fires and the artificial glow, from the windows of various motor homes in the distance, cast an eerie light on the small village of dilapidated buildings at the old Alabama plantation. Sam/Jerry paced in tight circles around the small pit he'd dug into the ground. With the other spirit's guidance, it had been a simple enough matter to find the place where Hutchon had died. Then, they had made the small hole where the dagger would burn, and laid out the fuel and the matches, everything was ready. Now all they needed was the knife.

_Oh God!_ Was she alright? Was she hurt? Had Hutchon come? Had the symbols worked? Had she gotten the knife? And if she had, what had it cost her to face him? It was hard to tell who was more concerned, Sam for Reggie, or Jerry for Marnie. _Again, _moaned Jerry, _I did it again. I let her go off alone. Let her take the risks, I should have gone, should have protected her. _Sam gritted his teeth. _She's safe with Dean, _he told the other spirit firmly. His worry was overcome by his ultimate confidence in his brother.

He let a lifetime of memories wash over the agitated ghost housed in his mind and body. A thousand dangerous encounters, a hundred near death experiences, and always, _always_, Dean was there to save the day. His mind wandered, as he thought back, forgetting his original purpose, to comfort and reassure the other spirit, and he came full circle. Saw again the small, gloomy room at the quaint old inn, saw his brother's face through an amber haze of whisky, heard him promise, promise not to let him become the darkness that he had spent his life fighting.

He had asked Dean to swear that he would kill him, before he let that happen, and Dean had vowed he would. But Sam knew, he knew that what Dean had really promised to do, was save him. And no matter how afraid he was, no matter how vast and abysmal the yawning chasm inside him, no matter how powerful his self-doubt, he could not doubt Dean. Dean the loyal, Dean the true, Dean the obstinate, pain-in-the-ass, my way or the highway, and yes that includes dealing with your agnsty identity crisis, suck it up buttercup, Winchester. It was all that kept him going.

On some level he understood, that he had the same absolute, blind faith in Dean, that Dean had once had in their father. Only Sam knew that ultimately, he'd gotten the better end of that deal, because, despite all that their father had been, and he had been many great things, Dean was the better man. For him vengeance was a part of it, but ultimately, Dean did what he did because he believed that he could help and protect others, stop them from going through what he had gone through has a child. And most of all, Dean believed that he _would_ save Sam.

Sam understood in a way that Dean couldn't, that when John Winchester had traded his life for that of his eldest son, it had been an act of love, and also one of foresight and sacrifice. If there was ever a man who could shoulder the burden of saving the world, well, it was Dean. Because when the apocalypse loomed on the horizon, as Sam rather suspected it was doing right now, Dean would glance up, take stock, collect the necessary items, and get the job done. No questions asked. Then he would go to the roadhouse, have a cold beer and a chat with Ellen, and hit the road again, looking for the next person to save, the next bad guy to kill. And for his brother, it would be that simple, because being the hero wasn't what Dean did, he wouldn't think of it that way, would never classify himself as the heroic type, but it was who he was.

Sam shook his head, he couldn't be happy about that, because it was also all Dean was, all he would let himself be. Why couldn't either of them strike the right balance. Dean over-simplified and sacrificed all other possibilities for the job, and Sam, well, Sam over-complicated and rebelled against doing that which he knew he had to, fighting what was a part of his very identity, in an attempt to become someone else, for dreams he couldn't have. Neither of them were whole, but one way or the other, Reggie/Marnie would be safe with his brother.

_Okay, okay, I'm convinced!_ Jerry's voice sounded in his head, snapping him out of his revere,

_I get it. Your brother's the right guy for the job._

_Yeah_ said Sam, H_e is_.

He had to believe that was true of more than just tonight.

There was a pause,

_He's also not the only hero in this family,_ said Jerry quietly, and, borrowing from Sam's own memory banks, cast a handful of images at him.

Sam standing, unarmed, between the Wendigo and three frightened siblings. Sam wrestling a small, slim woman from the arms of an angry spirit and a watery death. Sam protecting Lori from the spirit of the Hookman. Sam believing that some vampires could resist their evil nature. Sam rescuing Dean from Gordon, and then refusing, despite everything, to take the life of another human being. Sam emerging from a stagnant pool of water with a little girl in his arms.

_Just because you think about it, just because you sometimes wish that someone else could do it, and you could just be normal, doesn't lessen the value of what you've done, what you do. Believe me, I've had a lifetime of experience. We all have those moments. You have to give yourself a break. _Sam felt the renewal of Jerry's worry.

_Sorry_ said the other spirit,

_But she's my whole life...and, I guess, my afterlife? _He sounded a bit confused, but continued on to the important point,

_I can't help it._

_S'okay_ said Sam. _I know how you feel._

_Yeah, _murmured Jerry

_I know you do._ _Listen, about Jessica... You can't save everyone, _he began.

Sam was saved from having to deal with that uncomfortable issue, as his ears perked, picking up an approaching sound, the familiar growl of the impala's engine.

Reggie felt the little light inside Marnie switch on as Sam/Jerry came into view. Silhouetted in the car's headlights, she could almost make out the second figure, a little shorter, and a little broader, that stood as one with Sam. Understanding and envy had her stepping back, allowing Marnie this moment, to throw open the door, shoot out of the car, and fling herself into the arms of the man she loved. She fought the threat of phantom tears as the two embraced.

She could feel their love so clearly. It detracted nothing, made each stronger. Marnie pulled back, gazing at the soul of the man behind Sam's blue eyes. He looked back, his hands sliding up to cup her face in a familiar caress, his thumb skimming along her jaw. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jerry knew that the shape of the face was wrong, the skin to pale, and the eyes to dark, but all he saw was Marnie. He bent his head toward her.

_THWACK! _The slamming of the driver's door of the impala cracked through the silent air like a whip, shattering the moment of spiritual intimacy.

Dean strode around the front of the car and, reaching between the two bodies, forcing them apart, shoved the metal box at Sam/Jerry's chest.

"Don't even think about it."

His voice was so low it barely carried to the other man's ears, but looking at his face, and into his eyes, Jerry got the message. There was more than one woman in the body he was holding, and Dean was making it abundantly clear that only one of them was his, and the other, well, he got the feeling that Dean wasn't so clear on who or what exactly Reggie was to him, or maybe he just didn't want to acknowledge it, but either way, he defiantly didn't want Sam/Jerry kissing her. He smiled to himself, and felt Sam join his silent laughter.

_Poor Dean,_ he thought.

_He's got no idea what he's missing._

_Amen, _muttered Sam.

_But do you think he'd ever let himself care, even a little. Oh no! That could get in the way. It might interfere with **the job**_.

Jerry appraised Sam's feelings, there was no lingering jealousy, only exasperation, and sadness, over his brother's inability to see even the possibility of another life for himself.

_Cut him some slack, _suggested Jerry.

_He's only doing what he thinks is right._

Sam sighed, _I know._

"Hey" barked Dean, gesturing them sharply towards the small fire pit,

"Let's get this over with."

_Why do I get the feeling that he's as eager to get rid of me as Hutchon?_ Jerry's voice held a faint note of humour.

Reggie/Marnie shivered, even though the night was warm. Marnie was tense with excitement and anticipation, it was finally going to be over. She looked over at Sam/Jerry, who was holding the metal box which contained the dagger, and smiled, they would do it together, what neither had been able to do apart.

Reggie on the other hand, was trying hard not to be afraid. Without even realizing that she was doing it, she reached out for Sam and Dean. They had become so familiar in the past few weeks, so comfortable, even when she was trying to block them out. Now she hooked an emotional hand into the fabric of their steady, comforting presences, and stabilized herself. She took a deep breath and tried to allow herself to share Marnie's excitement. They were going to get the bastard.

Kneeling beside the small hole in the ground, Dean dumped fuel onto a few dry timbers, and lit a match, coaxing a small blaze into life. The image of Reggie's body, curving willingly into Sam's still burned behind his eyes. He rubbed a hand over them, willing the sight away. God, he'd be so damned glad when all this was over. It would be a lot easier to ignore how much he wanted Reggie, when the fact that someone else could have her wasn't so readily on display.

_It's not her!_ He reminded himself for the millionth time.

_Yeah, whatever,_ he shot back at the voice of reason sulkily, and motioned for Sam/Jerry to bring over the metal box with the knife. He firmly cleared all thoughts of Reggie from his mind. He had a job to do, and they were dealing with one seriously nasty spirit, he had to have his mind on his work.

"Okay, on the count of three, you open the box, and I'll grab the dagger and toss it in. You and Reggie cover me with the shot guns."

The other two nodded.

"Here goes nothing" muttered Dean, and nodded to Sam/Jerry to open the container.

It took him less than a second, to lay his hand on the leather wrapped hilt of the curved dagger, but it was to long.

The sensations, a hard blow to the chest and the feeling of flying through the air, were familiar. As was the bone crunching impact with the ground.

_Shit!_ The spirit was a lot faster than they were he thought, as the starry canopy of the sky above faded into black.

Reggie/Marnie let out a little scream, all the coiled tension her body exploding into panic, as Dean's body was unexpectedly launched into the air. She hadn't even seen the Hutchon's spirit arrive.

Sam/Jerry blinked in shock, one second he had been extending the box with the knife in it toward Dean, and the next second, his brother's body had been soaring through the air.

"Dean!" cried Sam/Jerry, hearing Reggie/Marnie scream, as his brother slammed into the ground.

He looked wildly around for Hutchon's spirit, and groaned, when he felt the shot gun and the box ripped from his hands by an invisible force.

The knife spun a way into the darkness, and the malignant spirit appeared.

It reached down for the weapon.

"Oh no" snarled Jerry, all the pain and anger of his past experience rushing to the fore,

"Not this time."

Throwing himself forward, he managed to reach the dagger first, and scoop it up, but felt another of Hutchon's phantom blows crack down on his wrist. The dagger dropped, and Hutchon grabbed at it again. It slid into his murderous grip.

Jerry didn't know what made him do it. Didn't know what made him think he could. He cast Sam aside, shoving the other spirit away, and concentrated on himself.

_I am Jerry Cobb._ He told himself firmly. _I am all he ever was, and all he ever might have been. I am not limited by the boundaries of this body. The bad guy may be an intangible spirit, but so am I. I will not fail again._

The hand of his borrowed body closed around Hutchon's wrist, and squeezed.

"_You!" _hissed the other spirit, recognizing his old foe behind Sam's eyes as they bore into the hollow pits that marked the place where the other ghost's eyes had once been.

"Me" affirmed Jerry, as he increased the pressure on the other spirit's hand.

Dean regained consciousness just in time to see his brother grab Hutchon's spirit by the arm. He blinked, as somehow, his brother's material body managed to maintain it's grip on Hutchon's otherworldly flesh.

Reggie/Marnie quickly levelled the shot gun at Hutchon, but was prevented from shooting him, because, to her amazement, Sam's body was blocking her shot, as he wrestled with Hutchon's spirit for the weapon.

_Ummmm, is he supposed to be able to do that?_ queried Marnie.

_I don't think so, r_esponded Reggie.

_It must be Jerry, _said Marnie, pride sounding in her voice.

_Mhmmmmm,_ said Reggie absently. She was concentrating hard on the emotions Hutchon's ghost was projecting. Every time Jerry got his hands on the knife, he broadcast feelings of serious terror.

_Well yeah, _said Marnie, _I mean, the fire pit is right there. Of course Hutchon is afraid Jerry will get the dagger, if he does, he could destroy it._

_No, _Reggie shook her head, she'd been reading emotions long enough to understand the nuance of Hutchon's fear. _He's not afraid of Jerry, he's afraid of the knife._ Understanding dawned.

_Oh my God! c_ried Marnie, as the information passed between them. Calling on more than a decade of shared experiences,she hollered at her partner.

"Jerry, Tucson!"

Jerry strained to maintain his precarious hold on Hutchon, as he floated somewhere between the worlds of the corporal and the phantasmal, but he heard Marnie's voice. He reacted without thinking, without stopping to question or wonder. Tucson was a code word they'd developed based on one of their earliest cases together. He lifted his right arm from where it was protecting his neck to help his left, allowing Hutchon to secure a choking grip on his throat as he fought for control of the dagger.

Wresting the knife from Hutchon's grasp with the last of his strength, he tossed it to her.

Reggie/Marnie caught the knife easily, _Are you sure about this_? she demanded as the shared body moved swiftly toward Hutchon.

_What the hell was she doing!?_ thought Dean, as he watched Reggie/Marnie move away from the fire pit toward Hutchon's ghost, the dagger clutched in her hand.

_Positive,_ said Reggie, and as one, they raised the knife and plunged it into Hutchon's back.

"You can't kill a ghost that……… way" Dean yelled at her, the words trailing off as Hutchon's spirit shuddered violently at the impact, and the knife stuck, right where Hutchon's heart should have been.

The ghost turned to look at Reggie/Marnie, as she fell to the ground beside the wheezing Sam/Jerry. His eyes widened with recognition and his mouth worked inarticulately.

"That's right" she said with quiet triumph, "Us."

Hutchon's phantom body began to convulse, its image becoming blurry at the edges and flashing in and out, until it flared suddenly into a great red pillar of spectral energy, and then collapsed, melting into a pool of blue and white light, which dissipated quickly, leaving only a watery stain on the verdant ground.


	33. Chapter 33

Author's Note: As always, thanks so much for the good reviews. With any luck, this chaper will see PFK celebrate its 70th. I cn't help but be all silly and excited. Enjoy!

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Collapsing back to the ground in surprise at the ghost's unexpected and sudden demise, Dean lifted a hand to his skull. His earlier head-wound had reopened and was bleeding again, and he was pretty sure his left shoulder was dislocated.

"Hell's bells" he muttered to himself, taking stock.

It was done. The spirit was gone, and he'd spent most of his time being fed dirt by the ornery sonofabitch. Reggie was right, his ego didn't like it. Having his thunder stolen by a tiny woman drowning in his brother's plaid shirt and a couple of friendly ghosts just didn't sit well.

He heard the wet shuffling sound the other two bodies made as they moved towards him, over the grass. But at least it was over.

He opened his eyes, Sam/Jerry and Marnie/ Reggie looked down at him. Well, maybe not quite over.

"Oh God" he groaned,

"Are you two still here!?"

Reggie/Marnie heaved a little sigh, as she stood inside the small hut where she had died. It was over, and she could already feel the gentle, insistent tugging. It was time to go. Where, and why, she didn't actually know, but she knew that the time for the journey, already to long postponed, had come.

She looked around, and breathed deeply, trying to somehow capture the sensation, to file away in her memory, what it felt like to breath cool, sweet air. To feel the wind, she looked at her hand, the fingers were twined with those of Sam/Jerry. She rubbed her thumb over his flesh, what it felt like to touch someone. Gazing down at their joined hands, she allowed herself to smile. Wherever they were going, at least they were going together.

From the doorway, Dean cleared his throat.

Sam/Jerry broke away from her and walked past the other man into the night, giving him a casual clout on the shoulder as he went. Marnie saw Dean blanch at the contact with his sore arm, and shoot a killing look after the other men, but noticed that when his head came back around, he wore an affectionate half smile. She didn't follow, knowing that Jerry was going out to say goodbye to the man who had helped his soul to find peace.

She sighed again, and spoke to Reggie.

_Is it strange, _she asked, T_hat I'm going to miss you. I've only known you, what, maybe 14 hours?_

_Well, _answered Reggie,

_I think this possession thing, sharing bodies, memories, feelings etc., and of course, the fighting for your life against a psychotic ghost thing, kinda fast-tracks the whole bonding process. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm going to miss you too._

Marnie gave a phantom nod.

_But you're not gonna miss having me rattling around in here poking at all the tender, off-limits places, right? _She teased.

Reggie laughed, _No, can't say as I will._

_Then I'll make this the last time, _said Marnie,

_It's not really him that you have the problem with. Trust yourself enough to trust him. _

_I don't know what you're talking about, _said Reggie with firm obstinacy. Marnie sighed,

_I didn't think you would_ she admitted, defeated.

_Will you do me one last favour?_

_What's that?_ Asked Reggie.

_Will you go into whatever that little sealed off place you have in your head is, and close the door for a few minutes?_

_Wait, _said Reggie, catching on,

_You want to talk to Dean? In private? _There was trepidation in her voice.

_Relax sweetie, _said Marnie, _I promise not to say anything you wouldn't say. Trust me?_

_Okay, _Reggie was still reluctant, but after all, she could hardly say no, it was the equivalent of a last request.

Muttering to herself, Reggie closed the mental door with a bang, making Marnie chuckle. It was the phantom equivalent of slamming the door behind you.

She moseyed over to where Dean was lounging against the door.

"Hey there" she said conversationally, leaning next to him.

He looked at her, "What do you want?" He knew it wasn't Reggie.

"To say thanks" she told him,

"And to say goodbye. And one more thing," she took a breath.

"I really think that you should take your head out of your ass and admit how you feel about this little girl. She's more than strong enough to take what you're so sure will break her. And what's more, it's not really all your decision you know!" She rolled her eyes,

"Just like a man to think that he's the only one who gets to call the shots. And finally, if you do hurt this girl, one way or the other, I'll be back. I swear to God I'll haunt your sorry butt for the rest of your days" she pinned him with a glare,

"You'll never get laid again" she promised ominously.

Dean listened, his face impassive, until her closing threat. His eyes rolled in exasperation and threw up his hands.

"What is it with this chick!" he demanded,

"Ever since I met her, I've had people treating me like I'm Mr. freaking Hyde. Brainy co-ed's threatening my life," he gestured at Marnie,

"Crazy ghosts promising to haunt me. I'm not some sort of monster you know. I have every intention of staying well away from her, so you can all just relax."

Marnie snorted out a laugh at his annoyance and shook her head at him,

"You're missing the point. The reason we all want to protect her is because she's something rare and fine"

"I know that" interrupted Dean, but Marnie continued to talk over him,

"But she's the kind of person who, while worth protecting, doesn't really need to be. She's strong Dean. And it's not just up to you" she finished.

He glared at her. She offered a hand in the face of his disgruntlement,

"In spite of all that, I really do want to thank you too. You're a good guy to have at your back in a tight corner" she said. Dean took her proffered hand,

"Ditto" he said with a reluctant smile.

"I'll bet you always got your man. I mean, how many cops would come back from the grave to chase down the bad guy, right?" Grinning at her he hummed the chorus of Bobby Fuller's classic 'I fought the law and the law won'.

"Now will you please, please, get out of Reggie's body, and take your handsy partner with you." Marnie laughed out loud.

"Sure thing sparky" she said affectionately, and did just that. When the other spirit finally vacated Reggie's body, she felt the world go black, and she pitched forward, right into Dean's arms.

As Reggie collapsed toward him, Dean reached out quickly and wrapped his arms around her waist, bracing her unconscious body against his own, wincing as his shoulder twinged at the impact. After a moment she awoke, her head tilting back so that she looked up into his face. The golden eyes blinked open, and only Reggie looked out at him.

"Hey there" said Dean softly, his voice low and husky. Reggie blinked again, and then immediately tensed up as she took in their intimate position. Quickly she jerked back, a blush covering her fair skin. _Oh yeah, _thought Dean with a familiar mix of frustration and pleasure, _That's her alright._

"Hey guys" said Sam from the doorway,

"I think you're gonna want to see this."

Ordering herself to stop blushing, she could feel the creeping heat as it worked its way across her face, and cursing Marnie, she had done that on purpose! Reggie walked quickly out the door, and stopped short at the sight before her. She didn't even move when Dean came up behind her. Not even when he placed his hands on her hips, easing her to one side so he could step out beside her. Her eyes were fixed on the wonder before her.

Jerry and Marnie, or what they had become, were swirling about, painting the night sky with an artificial, midnight sunset in a dozen colours, the silver lights of the stars peeking through the vibrant veil. The spirits themselves were formless, brilliantly white masses of energy, which trailed the glorious faux twilight behind them like spectral comets with unimaginably beautiful tails. The colours began to intensify as the pace of the spirits' dance quickened, and the colourful, trailing flags began to swirl, caught in the vortex of their whirling motion. The moving mass of colour and light, studded with silvery stars, looked like a small, floating galaxy, hung in the Alabama night for their personal pleasure.

The two pillars of white light at the centre of the microcosm were spinning ever faster and ever more closely together, until suddenly, they clashed, weaving together and igniting in a brilliant pyrotechnic display. The symphony of fire pulsed once, in a final farewell, and shot up into the heavens, disappearing from their sight. Reggie, Dean and Sam stood riveted, watching as the splendour of Marnie/Jerry's goodbye slowly faded from the sky.

Dean managed to tear his eyes from the gorgeous spectacle long enough to glance at Reggie's face, and missed the grand finale, because nothing could be more beautiful, more transfixing, than the sight of the spirits' joy reflected in her eyes; the magnificent blues and greens, the purples and reds, caught in the perfect, crystalline tears that ran down her face. He swallowed hard and looked away, as the last of the lights faded, lest he be caught staring, or gave into the temptation to reach out and gently wipe away the moisture that gathered on her luminous skin.

Marnie's voice sounded in his head, _She's something rare and fine,_ and unspoiled, he thought. Somehow, despite whatever darkness lurked in her past, Reggie had remained sweet, and gentle, and…pure somehow. And Marnie was wrong, she did need to be protected, and he _would_ protect her. He looked out to Sam's tall, lankly form. Her and Sam, because they were better, more important, than him. He was torn from his reflection by the sudden babbling of voices.

"I saw it! I saw it!" shirked a disembodied voice, soon after revealing itself to belong to a tall, slender man with a flowing white beard and maniacal eyes.

"The sign! I have been blessed, I have been chosen! I will take up Zostan's mantle, and lead the wandering children of Xacatan home" he fell to his knees, sobbing with pleasure.

"No, no, no" said another emerging voice, this time belonging to a small, plump blond woman wearing a blue robe, with a familiar purple star on her forehead.

"As usual" she said disdainfully,

"The gabbling sons of Xacatan have mistaken the glory of the Venusian oracle for the babblings of their foolish mother-race. No, the oracle appears to tell us that soon, the magnificent Amazon hordes of Venus will arrive, and rid this world of the plague of men" she spat the word and glared at Dean. His eyebrows shot up,

"Ummm, Sam" he called out,

"I think the moment's over" he began,

"Understatement" muttered his brother, as more voices took up the quarrel between the Xacatansians and the Venusians. Dean grunted in agreement,

"Either way, time to…."

"Excuse me"

He stopped, as another, familiar voice cut across the noise of the squabbling rabble. The battered suitcase caused a tiny puff of dust to rise when it thumped against the ground. Dordle held up his hands,

"My dear ladies and gentlemen" the gentile little man began,

"If I may have your attention, I can clear up this whole misunderstanding quite easily". He had their attention now. The blue robed Venusians leaned forward, and the Xacatansians strained their ears.

"You see my dear people" he continued,

"This lovely display, is, in fact…..a portent of impending doom. It is a sign that the apocalypse is nearly upon us! And therefore, I must strongly encourage you all to take this opportunity to prepare yourselves, by purchasing" he produced the leafblower-cum toaster with a grand flourish,

"The Super-Sucker 2000, perfect for dealing with all manner of space debris and post-apocalyptic mess!"

"Holy Mary, mother of God preserve us" muttered Dean, literally forced to rely on Catholic euphemism to express the breadth of his contempt and disbelief.

"Hey" muttered Sam,

"Don't be so quick to knock him, I'm not so sure he's wrong about that Apocalyptic stuff", Dean gave him a sharp look. Sam looked back with dark eyes. Their silent communication filled the air with tension.

"Ummm, guys?" said Reggie questioningly, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Time to go huh. I mean, Dean's bleeding and that arm needs looking at, and Sam, you're gonna have some nasty bruises on your neck…." She trailed off.

"Right" grunted Dean,

"Everyone back to the car." And with that, the three left, disappearing into the night as anonymously as they had come.


	34. Chapter 34

Author's Note: Hello everyone. I just want to say thanks and, throws confettii, take a moment to celebrate Review #70. I'm still all giddy over it. Anyway, I know a lot of people are frusterated with the slow progression of Reggie and Dean's relationship. They are going to get there, I promise, but there are a lot of dark things in Reggie's past, which I am about to start exploring more fully. Soon, we'll all be able to understand what is holding her back. The next few chapters will be pretty character driven. Enjoy!

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Dean yawned, stretching and rotating his healing left shoulder gingerly. He glanced up at Reggie who sat across from him, beside Sam, at the small restaurant just outside of Cullman. They had taken two days off, after finishing with Hutchon, to allow the boys to heal and rest, and to tie up any loose ends. Dean had of course, insisted on burning the dagger anyway, just to be on the safe side, and Sam had been determined to track down Dordle and cancel his order for an intergalactic dust buster.

He'd returned to the impala with a strangely glazed, hunted look in his eyes, towing the mechanical monstrosity of the Super Nova Sucker 2000 behind him. Climbing into the car, he'd said, in jerky, incomplete sentences,

"Display model. Good deal. Had to get away."

Reggie wondered if Dean would ever let him live it down. Glancing up to where he sat across from her, his head, like Sam's, buried behind a newspaper as they searched for a new case, she shook her head. Not bloody likely. Not so long as the sucker was riding shotgun in the backseat of the impala, threatening the upholstery of his precious car with its many, mysterious points and prongs.

Dean stared at his paper and read the same headline for the umpteenth time this morning. He was having a hard time concentrating. In the three weeks since she'd joined them, Reggie's short, spiky hairdo had started to grow out a bit, and the wild, natural curl was beginning to get unruly. She'd taken to haphazardly pinning the bulk of it at the back of her head, leaving small, short tendrils to curl down the back and sides of her neck, and around her face.

Today, the style was particularly alluring, because she'd chosen to wear crimson coloured tank top, with a delicate scalloped neck and straps, underneath a wide-necked, dove-grey, cropped cotton sweater. The scoop of the neckline left one shoulder bare but for the slender red line of the tank top's flimsy strap, and the lose drape of the short grey shell stopped two inches above her waist, leaving her sleek torso, hugged intimately by the long red tank, on display. Her denim petal pushers, with their red satin cuff, showed off slender ankles and small, elegant feet, clad in matching ballet slippers of red leather. Dean figured he must be going insane, I mean, he thought the woman's _ankles_ were sexy for God's sake! Or at least, he would have if he hadn't noticed how many other men in the dinner were noticing Reggie and her ankles.

Muttering under his breath he tried to go back to his paper, but found he wasn't able. Under the table, one small, cranberry clad foot was absently _tap, tap, taping_ against his leg in time with radio, which was playing Cheap Trick's 'I Can't Take It', and he couldn't. He groaned to himself, but couldn't stop his smile. She probably thought he was the table, but to his mind, that was beside the point. Even though she continued to avoid physical contact with him at all costs, the enforced intimacy of their living circumstances was slowly taking its toll on the high walls around her. His grinned widened, especially at night.

Dean didn't want to admit it but, he'd been both pleased and relieved that, when they had finally collapsed into bed after their long day of ghost hunting three nights ago, he'd awoken the next hour to find Reggie once again cuddled into his arms. And she'd been there every night since. Usually they assumed the same spooning position of the first night, which he thought of as their favourite, but not always. Sometimes they slept facing one another, her left arm around his neck, his around her waist, her head tucked under his chin. Sometimes he slept on his back, and she on her side, his right arm cradling her body against him, her head resting on his shoulder, and sometimes they barely touched at all. Like this morning, when he had awoken to find her sleeping on her back, while he was on his stomach beside her. The opposite sides of their bodies had been perfectly aligned, connected from shoulder to ankle, well, her ankle, his knee, and his right arm about her waist. But somehow, they were always together.

He knew she still had no idea, and he intended to keep it that way, but their secret nightly embraces satisfied something of the dark craving inside him. He was currently not thinking about why that might be. Nor did he think about how much he'd come to enjoy the sound of his name on her lips, come to know each inflection, even when she was furious with him.

There was, "For God's sake Dean!" and "Goddamnit Dean!" and exasperated "Dean", and long-suffering "Dean", and defeated "Dean", and, his new favourite, 'I'm trying hard but failing, to swallow my smile' "Dean".

_Shit!_ He thought, catching himself obsessing, he was in serious trouble.

Across the table, Reggie tried, for the tenth time, to catch the attention of the blond waitress. She was dying for a glass of water, but, after ascertaining that no matter how much she shoved her fake double-D's in his face, Dean just wasn't interested, the woman had been more or less flat out ignoring them. She gritted her teeth, normally Dean would flirt with anything on legs, and his rugged charm and magnetic charisma even worked on men, who saw in him some rebel fantasy come to life. Why did he have to choose this morning to suddenly become anti-social! Lifting her hand, she made another futile attempt to attract the bimbo's attention, turning and leaning slightly across Sam to make herself more visible, but to no avail. Her action did however, attract Sam's attention. Lowering his paper he smiled down at her,

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked.

"Oh nothing" she muttered, slumping back into her seat, and giving a little start of surprise when his long fingers suddenly reached out to catch her chin. Gently he tilted her face up so he could see her neck. The delicate, white skin on the right side of her throat was marred by an angry looking red mark.

"What's this?" he demanded, concerned.

"Hmmm?" she questioned, lifting her hand to the affected spot,

"Oh that" she dismissed it with a wave of her hand,

"It's nothing, I think I might be having a reaction to the hotel's deter…gent", she paused, looking up in alarm as Dean suddenly began to choke violently on his coffee, knocking over his cup.

Dean stared at Reggie's neck in shock. She may not have known what the mark was, but he did. Reggie had whisker burn! From his whiskers! The graze was precisely where his chin usually nestled against her neck during the night. The smooth, sensitive flesh was rubbed slightly raw by the contact with his stubbled face. Cursing under his breath Dean quickly righted his coffee cup, and jolted when the persistent blond waitress suddenly appeared by his side, her hand, clutching a napkin, dropping below the table top to mop up an imaginary spill.

"Hey" he cried in surprise, yanking her hand unceremoniously from his lap.

"The coffee is on the _table_" said Reggie coolly from across the way, dumping a handful of napkins from the table dispenser over the mess, effectively dealing with it.

"Ummmm" stuttered Dean, seriously uncomfortable under Reggie's disapproving gaze. He gave the waitress a small smile and said firmly,

"Thanks, but we're…fine."

"Actually" began Reggie,

"I'd really like a glass….." she trailed off as the blond huffed away.

"Forget it!" she snapped, "I'll do it myself."

So saying she climbed across Sam, out of the booth, and marched up to the front counter.

She smiled pleasantly at the woman there,

"Good morning. If it's not to much trouble, may I please have a glass of water?"

"Of course!" said the elderly woman, looking somewhat taken aback by the simple request, and hurrying off to fill the order.

Sam was starring at his brother. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what was making Dean act so against type. He shook his head, since when did his brother protest a little, or for that matter, a lot, of blatant female attention. It wasn't that Dean screwed every woman he came across, or who offered herself, but Sam had never, ever, seen his brother blush, or stutter. What the hell was going on? Could this have something to do with Reggie? Following the line of his brother's gaze towards her, his eyebrows rose. Maybe it did.

Dean watched with a scowl as a tall, black haired, blue eyed, too pretty for his own good, Alabama cowboy sitting at the long counter sized Reggie up, while she waited for her water. Absently, he rubbed a hand along his cheek, it was already starting to get scratchy, but just at the moment, he wasn't all that sorry to have left his mark on her. That night at the hotel, when Sam would ask Dean in a confused tone why he was shaving at night, Dean would reply that he was trying to circumvent some of the bathroom congestion in the mornings, when all three of them were trying to get ready.

"Does the time really matter? Once a day is once a day, right?" he'd say.

"Uh, sure" Sam would respond, shooting his brother a strange look, but letting it go. But that would be hours later.

Right now, Dean watched like a hawk, as the pretty cowboy slid off his stool when Reggie walked by him, tipping his hat and saying in a warm, deep, southern drawl,

"Mornin' M'am." Reggie looked up in surprise, and flashed a brilliant, genuine smile in return.

"Morning" she practically sang it, and Dean saw the other man's eyes light with hope and expectation. He shook his head, poor sucker. And that was when she did it, he knew the move was calculated, and couldn't help but admire it's effectiveness. She turned away, the line of her body and the tilt of her head saying in no uncertain terms that, despite her warmth and politeness, the cowboy was casually and immediately forgotten. What he didn't know was that she reached behind her with her gift, to buoy the man's flagging spirits.

Dean saw the light in the other man's eyes flicker out, but he knew that the dopey grin would stick to his face all day. Reggie just had that effect on people. Even the briefest contact left you feeling better. He shook his head in disbelief, she was something to see.

"Time to get going" he announced, throwing some bills on the table and sliding out of the booth just as Reggie returned. Glaring at him, she drained her water glass, spun on her heel, and stomped out the door. Dean smiled and strolled after her, whistling. God knows, baiting her always made his day.

Dean hummed with pleasure as he felt the power of the impala's engine transmitted through the tension in the steering wheel, felt the bite of tires on asphalt, the whipping pressure of the wind on his face. The soreness in his left shoulder had faded, but even the minor ache caused by his firm grip on the wheel only served to make him feel more alive. He always felt this way after a successful hunt. Empowered, strong, able. And right now, with all the dark doubts: Sam's future, the demon that hunted them, the looming possibility of an apocalyptic war, he needed to feel that.

He noticed that even Reggie wore a smile, as she sat sandwiched between the two brothers in the front seat of the impala, the wind from Dean's open window teasing glistening stands of her tawny hair from the confines of hairpins, and making the wisps of gold and bronze dance in the shadow and sunlight. He was glad she'd given up her futile attempts to chase them all down and heard them back into some semblance of neatness. She did however, make a scathing comment about inconsiderate Neanderthals and windows. Dean just smiled and turned up the radio, letting the deep, pulsing beats of the Stones' classic "Start me up" add to his natural high.

"Driver's prerogative sweetheart" he drawled, grinning, knowing how it bugged her when he called her that. As if to escape his sudden attention, she turned to Sam and held out her hand,

"Phone" was all she said. Sam pulled his cell from his pocket and handed it to her. Accepting it, she turned and climbed into the backseat of the impala, cursing as the one of the sucker's many protruding arms poked her in the ribs, to conduct her daily check-in with Camillie in the illusion of privacy provided by the broad seatback. Dean shook his head, impressed by her perseverance with the daily ritual. In spite of everything that had happened, Reggie never missed her call to Camillie. Come rain or snow, a murderous ghost, a minor case of possession, or a little of both, she clung unrelentingly to her ties with the 'real' world.

Reggie listened to the phone ring in her ear, hoping Camille was already up, and smiling with macabre expectation, at what erudite atrocities she might be treated to, from the safe distance of a few thousand miles, if she'd woken her friend. No such luck, Cami picked up on the third ring.

"Hey" said Reggie.

"Ungrateful, AWOL friend reporting as promised." She practically had to yell to be heard over the radio, she shot Dean a deadly look.

Grudgingly, he turned down the music.

Camille snorted,

"Ungrateful is right. I can't believe, that after all this time, you still won't tell me what is going on. I mean, come on. I know you're not in love with Sam, and we both know how you feel about guys like Dean. How is the arrogant pig anyway?" she asked, carefully feeling her way into what she was beginning suspect were actually fairly murky waters.

By now it was abundantly clear to Cami, that while Sam was just the kind of guy who might motivate someone to do the unthinkable, as Reggie had, and run off into the proverbial sunset, he and Reggie were not romantically involved. Which lead her to wonder what exactly was keeping her friend from her home and family. The fact that it could be Dean had only recently occurred to her. It wasn't in what Reggie said, but more in what she didn't say. She never, ever mentioned him to Cami, as though by refusing to acknowledge his existence, she could ignore it altogether.

In Cami's experience, the only people who could provoke such behaviour from Reggie, were those dangerously close to getting under her skin, to getting around the walls she so painstakingly built to protect herself. She could practically see Reggie's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, Cami never asked about Dean. Reggie reluctantly dragged her gaze from the window, to study Dean's profile from behind.

_How's Dean?_ She repeated the question to herself. _Dean is fine, Dean is Dean, Dean is……_ Her eyes travelled along the square line of his jaw, slid to the soft, blond hair at his nape, she looked at the strong, broad, leather clad shoulders, followed the line of his long, muscular arm to the wide palmed, long-fingered hands, which held the leashed power of the car so easily in check. Shaking her head, she tried no to think about how much the sleek, powerful machine and its owner had in common. She failed, and for a moment, the truth came screaming through.

_How was Dean?!_

Dean was irritating, maddening, infuriating, gorgeous, beautiful, tempting, and unrelentingly sexy. _Oh God!_

The man practically radiated sensuality and sex appeal. He was sexy when he walked, when he talked, in that voice that sounded like rough velvet, when he was making her smile and when he was making her crazy. When he grinned at her, with hidden heat in his green-gold eyes, when he got that arrogant look on his face, the one that she hated herself for loving. He was sexy when he kicked demon ass, and when he gently comforted his tortured baby brother without having to say a word. And, she looked at him again, sitting casually, confidently, behind the wheel of the powerful car, he was sexy when he drove. Reggie swallowed hard, she had to get a grip on herself, otherwise, she was either going to melt or spontaneously combust, Dean did a lot of driving.

"Fine" she answered absently, unaware of the husky timbre of her own voice as she starred at him unabashedly.

"Fine?" repeated Cami, tearing Reggie away from her perusal. Leaning forward she pressed the heel of her palm to the center of her forehead and gave herself a little tap, as though she could knock her unruly thoughts and very dangerous desire for Dean from her head. _Remember all the reasons you don't like him_ she coached herself, _And why, even if you did, this would still be a bad idea._ Fear and mistrust closed around her like a steel trap, ruthlessly sheering off her earlier thoughts and feelings of admiration and want. _To dangerous, to give that much of her self, especially to a man like Dean, _cruel and frightened voices whispered in the back of her mind. She shoved them aside. Here, inside her self-made prison, she was safe, if not happy.

"Reggie, Reggie!?" the sound of Camille's voice wrenched her back into reality.

"Hmmmm, sorry" she apologized, forcing herself to act as though everything was normal.

"What was that?"

"I said" repeated Cami,

"That if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Sam now."

"Oh, right, sure" said Reggie nonplussed, and she rose and leaned over the front seat to deliver the phone to Sam in what had become a part of the daily ritual; ever since the first time, about a week ago, when Reggie had woken up to the sound of Sam's rolling laughter, and discovered that Camille had called on his phone before she'd been up, and Sam had answered. Now, everyday, Cami ended her check-in with Reggie by talking with Sam. Reggie had no idea what they said to each other, lots or random nonsense as far as she could tell from this end, but she didn't mind.

For one, it helped Cami to trust Sam, which meant she gave Reggie less of a hard time about telling her where they were and why she was there, and, it made Sam happy. Reggie had never heard him laugh as much as he did when he spoke to Cami. She had never felt him feel so light. She was smiling herself, phone still pressed to her ear, as she leaned over to give it to him. Passing the cell, she grinned at him,

"She says she couldn't find out for sure about the platypus, but not to worry, she has a theory." Sam grinned back at her.

It was so Cami, she _always_ had a theory. Of course, she was also usually right, but the magnitude of her friend's brilliance was old news to Reggie, to Sam on the other hand, it was something exciting and new.

"Really?" he said, face and voice animated with curiosity and, something else, Reggie reached out gently. Pleasure, pure and simple. She beamed again and met Dean's eyes in the rear-view mirror. His answering smile was glad, as he listened to the sound of his brother's voice, free for once, of the darkness and fear it now almost perpetually held.

"Platypus" he mouthed at her, raising a brow.

Reggie shrugged, "Don't ask" she advised him.

And for once they were at peace, as they listened to the happy sound of Sam's deep, rough chuckle. It sounded a little rusty, as if it hadn't been used in a long time.


	35. Chapter 35

Author's Note: Hello everyone. I know this chapter is a little shorter than what I have been posting lately, but the next chunk kinda all needs to go together, and it's not quite ready so...Sorry about that. I'm glad you are all enjoying the new Sam/Cami storyline, I really felt it was time he found a little hope. Enjoy!

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Sam couldn't help but smile when he heard Cami's voice on the phone, anymore than he could help feeling disappointed after she hung up. He could see her face so clearly when they spoke. The curling, sunbright hair, and the dark, chocolate eyes, the fair skin and the tiny dusting of freckles across her nose. Even he hadn't known what an accurate mental snapshot he'd taken of her during their very brief meeting. The one he now carried tucked against his heart like some kind of talisman. He couldn't help but feel that it was unfair of him, to use her that way, to feel that way about her, when she was so far away, and had no idea who he was, or what he did. But he found he couldn't help it.

He wondered if it always happened this fast, whether it could be real, or if the woman he saw in his head was actually no more than a projection of a fantasy, a way for him to deal with an irrepressible need for relief. He wondered if he'd ever really have the chance to find out.

For now, she would just be the voice on the phone, and the picture in his head. A thought form slowly filling out into a person during their daily conversations, substance hung on a framework of fleeting memories. Her fierce loyalty to her friend, her sharp, sarcastic interactions with his brother, her gentle concern, and her bravery, when she finally accepted that the only thing she could do for her friend was trust her, and him. Maybe, in the end, it was better that she wasn't here. That way, she was able to remain a possibility, a glimmer of hope. That way he wasn't forced, by the life he often hated but couldn't escape, to lose her like Jessica, or leave her behind like Sarah.

Instead, he could slowly discover her. The woman he was coming to know was strong, and kind, and _smart! _No, _brilliant!_. She was a tiny dynamo of energy, and a vast reserve of all kinds of fascinating information, some insightful and profound, and some amusingly useless. It made for such simulating and diverting conversation. In fact, when he talked to Cami, about whatever their chosen topic of the day was, be it the mating practises of Duck-billed platypi, whether hemo-lymph("What?" "Insect blood." "Oh.") has cells, or ancient Christian scripture, he never thought about the dark and dangerous path that was set before his feet. He forgot, just for a few minutes, to be afraid of the monster that might lurk within him, and of the dark destiny that might await him. He forgot that he had grown up without a mother, and that his father had died before they'd ever really had a chance to forgive each other for hurts built up over years of miscommunication and misunderstanding. Forgot that his father had condemned himself to hell to save his brother, and that his parting words to Dean had been about killing Sam. He looked at his brother, there was comfort there. His ultimate foundation in a sea of troubles, and now there was Reggie too.

Glancing back at her, he wondered if she and Dean ever realized how alike they were. That bone deep, never quit, do or die loyalty, that would drive either of them to do whatever was necessary to help, to save, the ones they loved. They shared that. And she was the gentle voice which said all of the things that went unspoken between the brothers. She was the middle, the in between, the balance. Closing his eyes against the bright, southern sunlight, he tried to hold onto the bubble of joy that expanded within him when he spoke with Cami, using it to cushion his battered, exhausted soul against the rising tide of fear and anguish. Carefully, he added further layers to the tenuous barrier. The feeling of a childish longing satisfied by Reggie's affectionate kiss on the temple, and her willingness to share some of the normal, safe world she fought to hold onto with him. The feeling of safety, provided by Dean, the strong, silent soldier, his protector, his guardian. Picking up his paper, he went back to cruising the local news for the strange and unusual circumstances that might indicate there was a job for them in the region. In short, he went on, because he had too.

It wasn't long before he found something.

"Hey guys" he said, leaning forward, "I think I might have one."

Dean waited a beat. He still wasn't sure, especially given what had happened during her first hunt, that hunting while Reggie was with them was such a good idea. But they hadn't heard hide nor hair from the yellow-eyed demon since that first night in California, which actually made Dean more nervous than reassured, and to be honest, he just didn't know what else to do. Dean had been hunting nearly as long as he could remember, it was just, life. What else would he do? So, he nodded the acknowledgement he knew that Sam was waiting for.

"So tell us", he ordered.

"Okay" said Sam, craning his neck to look at Reggie, where she still sat in the back seat.

"There's this place, Houma, where there have been three mysterious deaths. The first two were an elderly couple who live on this old orchard, and the third was a horticulture PhD student from the local university."

"And" said Dean,

"What makes you think that this is our kind of problem?"

"Well" said Sam,

"All three people seem to have died from choking, on apples, from the same tree in the orchard. It's _the end of February_, not exactly peak growing season."

"Okay, it's a bit weird" said Dean,

"But supernatural? I dunno."

"Listen to this" said Sam, waving aside his brother's objections,

"It says here that the elderly couple, who owned the orchard, reported that one of their trees was sick. They said that it was blooming in the middle of the winter, and the apples on it were black. They were discovered dead in their home, pieces of the fruit lodged in their throats, a few nights later. And the student, he collected some samples of the apples, to see if he could figure out what was happening to them, and was discovered dead in his lab the next morning."

"Yeah, yeah" interrupted Dean,

"Let me guess, he decided to try one of the apples and choked to death. I'll say it again, it's weird, but c'mon man, _cursed fruit! _It's all just a little Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, don't you think"

"Not cursed" corrected Sam with a shake of his head, he looked at his brother knowingly,

"Possessed fruit. Or possibly fruit tree" he added as an afterthought.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" exclaimed Dean.

"There is no way Sam, _no way_. I've never heard of anything remotely like that before."

Having said it, Dean waited, counting down in his head, _five, four, three, two, one._

"Actually" piped up Reggie from the back seat, as if on cue,

"There were some reports of possessed fruit and vegetables during the era of the witch-hunts in Reformation Europe."

He swung his head around to look at her,

"Is there _anything_ you don't know something about" he demanded.

She shrugged, "I took this course on Magic and Witchcraft in the Middle Ages once. I did a project on how there was a connection between the increase in reports of demonic possession and exorcisms during the reformation era, and how both were used as tools by the Catholic church to assert its dominance over spiritual matters, and discredit the emerging theological challenge presented by the Protestants, who couldn't perform exorcisms."

"Right" he said, shaking his head,

"Of course you did."

She glared at him.

"So, did any of these possessions involve apples?"

"Umm, yep, I think a few of them did. Mostly apples in fact. It fits nicely with Catholic theology, you know, original sin and all, and I think maybe there was a stray turnip."

Dean rolled his eyes,

"A stray, killer, turnip" he repeated. She shrugged,

"I'm just telling you, there is a precedent."

Sam looked at him expectantly.

"Oh for God's sake, _fine!_ We'll check out the damn demonic fruit" he muttered.

"Where did you say this freak show was again?"

"Louisiana."

"Home of the hokey. Figures," he muttered.


	36. Chapter 36

Author's Note: Hey there everyone. I'd just like to say hello to the new reviewers we've picked up. Thanks for the support and welcome to our little fellowship. I, of course, appreciate any comments implying that the story should get more reviews, but I'm quite content with my little lot. You may be few, but you are fine, and you are loyal. I love you for it. These next couple of chapters are going to be our first real foray into some serious angst, our Reggie has a very dark past, and we're going to start seeing it. Caution, speed bumps ahead. Enjoy!

p.s. Please don't hesitate to lay the smak down on me if you feel I am wandering into Mary Sue territory with Reggie. As I have said before, I've worked really hard to make her real, and I will shoot myself if I degrade her that way. I'm counting on you to make sure I don't slip across the line.

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That night, as Dean drove toward the next place, the next motel, the next job, the next danger, he couldn't hold on to his earlier feeling of optimism, he couldn't help but think of what was to come. He was worried, worried about Sam. His little brother was retreating into himself. He barely ate, he rarely slept, and when he did, Dean knew it was never restful. But the demons that hunted and tortured Sam weren't the kind he could kill, and he wasn't having so much luck with more corporeal type either. Running a hand over his tired eyes, he played back the events of the past few weeks in detail, especially those first few days, when they had encountered and faced the demon in California. Why hadn't it shown up yet? What kind of game was it playing? He knew that they were doing a good job of covering their tracks, but not that good.

As far as he could tell, there weren't even any indications that the demon was _trying_ to find them. Was it all some kind of manipulative ruse? How was Reggie connected to the other psychic children, and why had her grandmother's dead spirit sent her running to the Winchesters for help? How did the old woman even know about them? And what exactly had happened between Reggie and the demon in the church that night, or for that matter, between her and Hutchon? Thus far, he'd avoided probing to deeply into the abilities that went with Reggie's gift. It made him so uncomfortable, to think that she might know about the deep, dark battles that he fought each day, against the doubt and the anger that raged inside him. The fear and the pain he kept, even from himself. But, now, now there were too many questions, and not enough answers. And Sam's life and wellbeing were at stake. Something was coming, his hunter's sixth sense felt it as clearly as his younger brother's psychic one, he could feel the gathering storm of darkness as it condensed around them.

He was just going to have to deal with it. Right now, Reggie was the only person with some of the answers he needed. He looked over at her. She lay against Sam, tucked along his side, their eyes were closed. He listened to the sound of her soft breathing. He was intimately acquainted with steady, rhythmic patterns taken on by both of them in sleep. Sam was out cold, Reggie was awake. _No time like the present_ he told himself, _Time to bite the bullet._

"Reggie", her eyes fluttered open at the sound of her name.

"Yes", the answer was soft.

"Can I, erherm, can I ask you something?"

Her drowsy eyes sharpened, focusing on him,

"What's that?" she asked. _Might as well cut to the chase_ he thought.

"You know, way back, in California, when we were in the church, what did you do to the demon? How did you use your….gift, against him?" he asked, getting right to the point, with characteristic bluntness.

Reggie's eyebrows rose, Dean never, ever, asked her about her gift, in fact, most of the time, he acted like it didn't exist.

"What?" she said, her tone conveying her surprise.

He shrugged uneasily,

"Look, I wouldn't pry, except" he let out a frustrated breath,

"Except, as far as I know, you're the only person or thing that's been able to hurt the demon, or his host, since we" his eyes darkened with remembered pain, "Since we…lost the colt" he finished.

"And I need to know what you know, there might be some way to stop it. Something, some detail that you don't even realize is important, might be the key to saving Sam."

Ah, now she understood. If it was about Sam, especially if it was about protecting Sam, there was no line Dean wouldn't cross, no torture he wouldn't suffer. He'd even go so far as to admit he needed her help. Well, almost. She shook her head, he was the consummate older brother.

"How many years between you?" she asked, surprising him with the unexpected question.

"Uh, four" he said, and looking over at the sleeping Sam, his eyes softened,

"But sometimes, it seems like a lot more" he murmured.

Reggie nodded in understanding. She had a younger sister herself, she knew what it was like. You always felt so much older, and she had finally come to realize that it was because older siblings lived everything twice. Once when they did it, and once when their younger brother or sister did. Only the second time, there was this heavy weight of knowing, and the desire to make it easier, better. You remembered, no, you felt, their happiness, their triumph, her eyes darkened, their pain, their confusion, more acutely than your own. She knew something about the brothers' childhood, their relationship, from her conversations with Sam.

She knew that Dean had _only_ experienced childhood through his brother's eyes, that his own had ended when he was four years old, the day his mother had died. The day he saw her die. The day he'd become a man. She'd been able to see, so clearly, when Sam had described it to her, though she knew he hadn't meant to tell her as much as she had gleaned.

She'd seen Dean, forced to become father to his brother, and the emotional linchpin of the man who was supposed to be taking care of him, before he turned five years old. Seen the warrior in him forged in the hot fires of misery and rage and hate. Seen it tempered by love. Despite everything he'd gone through, he'd loved so much, fought to build a family out of the ashes of his former life. Carrying them all on his slim, straight shoulders, refusing to bow down in defeat. Accepting the responsibility, much of it unfairly given, that his father had heaped upon his shoulders. Not just accepting, but embracing his role as Sam's guardian, as the centre of their broken family. Trying to balance out the conflict between them, to be enough to both, to make them all whole again. Brother, father, mother, son, friend, protector, partner, soldier, peacekeeper. He'd done everything he could to keep them together, and she knew he thought he'd failed. But he hadn't. Sam was still here, Sam was still safe, and she knew he'd do anything to keep it that way. He was better at it than she had been, than she was. She _had_ failed. Failed Abbey.

Dean wasn't exactly sure what he was seeing in Reggie's eyes, but he didn't like it. She seemed haunted, as she stared, having fallen silent, out into the night.

"I always forget that you have a sister" he said, breaking the thick silence that had settled in the car between them.

"She's a ballerina right?" he asked, trying to engage her, he was pretty sure he'd heard her tell Sam that. In his mind it fit. Reggie had this unconscious grace, this quiet elegance to her. He could see a younger sister, a bit shorter perhaps, more coltish, without the lush curves but with the same delicate face.

"Yes" her smile was sad.

"She's a soloist with the New York City Ballet." A cool, distant princess living in an ivory tower, far away from the sister who loved her, who needed to be loved by her.

"Are you close?" Long lashes swept down to cover amber eyes that filled with pain.

"We're fine" the banal statement, the uninflected tone, whispered of past betrayal, of past agonies. It wasn't right, thought Dean, that someone as caring and committed as Reggie, should be estranged, hurt, by the ones she loved the most.

_We were once. _Thought Reggie to herself, silently answering Dean's question in full. _It's my fault that we aren't now._ She hadn't known, couldn't have realized, what growing up in the pretty blue house with its white picket fence and secret atrocities would do to them, to her. They had lived in a world where the air was fairly thick with hatred and fury. Their nightly lullaby was the sound of their parents raging screams. At first, it had brought them closer, they had leaned on each other, for comfort, for support. Reggie had been the big sister who'd always insisted that her little sister join her and her friends, since Abbey had none her own age, rather than sending the younger girl away.

Reggie had held Abbey when she cried, and worse. She swallowed hard, remembering the desperate need that had engulfed her, to protect Abbey, the day she had found the seven year old in their shared bathroom, small fists beating on her own chest, tearing at her own hair, in an attempt to make something, anything, hurt more, hurt enough, to wipe away gnawing, constant pain of their parents war, of their father's cruelty. The black hole that opened in your chest and perpetually threatened to suck you in. To end you. Reggie had felt it to. They had known the truth, a heart really could be made to physically ache, to bleed, by words that were said, and equally by silences. Eventually, what had saved Reggie had doomed Abbey. She would never have let it happen, but she hadn't been able to see.

As Reggie grew older, she began to recognize the malicious manipulation, the deliberate infliction of pain her father engaged in. He would do anything to control them, and it was an effective tactic. She had turned to her mother, and Kristen Thorpington had tried to lavish enough love on her eldest daughter to make up for all the pain, or done the best she could, and reached out to her youngest, but in vain.

Abbey, unable to admit that her father was the source of her pain, insisted on blaming both equally, and she wouldn't accept Kristen's consolation, wouldn't accept her love. She saw demons everywhere, but still, her valiant, naive sense of loyalty wouldn't allow her to abandon _him_ in the face of Reggie and Kristen's increasingly united front. He used it, used her guilt and her innocent trust, to torture her, and to hold Reggie and Kristen prisoner. Kristen wouldn't leave him, having been told that the courts would award him partial custody, because what he did didn't leave the kind of scars that you could see. She wouldn't leave them alone with him, without even the paltry buffer she could supply.

At first, Abbey had turned to Reggie for the succour neither parent could provide, but as her hate and rage escalated, their relationship began to disintegrate. She began to resent Reggie's relationship with their mother, and to be angry at Reggie because Reggie blamed their father.

Unable to lash out at either her father or mother, for fear of their rejection and further torment, Abbey had turned on the one person she trusted enough not to abandon her, even in the face of her blinding and bitter anger. She had poured out the cruel, acid anguish onto her sister, and Reggie had accepted it. Hoping that by doing so, by allowing Abbey to purge some of the darkness that built up so violently within her, she could stop it from poisoning the little one's soul. It hadn't worked. She had failed. Eventually, guilt and shame over her actions, and a continued inability to acknowledge her father's abuse, drove Abbey away. Away from all of them, even Reggie. And now, she stayed away. Oh they saw each other. Reggie had conducted a hundred late night study sessions over the phone while Abbey was in high school, had driven her to her audition for NYCB, had been to every opening night performance, but it wasn't the same.

Abbey still trusted Reggie to be there for her, but she no longer trusted anyone to soothe or comfort her broken soul. She was alone. Reggie had failed. She looked up at Dean, tawny eyes glittering with the tears she would not shed. She hadn't protected Abbey, and yes, she had failed, but Dean hadn't, and she could help him, she could help him to protect Sam.

Seeing the wrenching grief, the suffering, the heartache in Reggie's eyes shocked Dean. Shocked and infuriated him. It was pain that he knew, pain that he recognized, the comfortless, desolate kind that stripped the soul bare. Every protective instinct he had kicked into overdrive. He knew that if he could see it, if she couldn't hide it, it must be eating her up inside. It was wrong, that something so gentle, something so faithful and warm and brave as Reggie, should have been hurt so much. And in that instant, with the night's black cloak close around the car and Reggie's pain laid bare to Dean's eyes, he would have given anything, anything, to take the inconsolable, wounded look from her eyes. But he couldn't, she wouldn't let him. So he waited, until she'd tamed the emotional storm which had risen within her. And when she began, at last, to speak, pushing it all aside, to help him, to help Sam, he sat silently and listened, a little awed, because she was stronger, stronger than he'd thought.


	37. Chapter 37

Author's Note: Hi guys. I know, another short update, but this angsty, emotional stuff makes for rather slow going. I'll try to post again tomorrow. Enjoy.

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Reggie collected herself and forced her mind to cease dwelling on the painful things in her past she could not change. She focused on her recollection of that night. It was a dark, visceral whirlwind of adrenalin driven, fear ridden, horror and fury. She picked her way through the jagged mental fragments of memory, some were painfully sharp and clear, others blurred, dulled by the cushion of shock. Inside her head, she walked back through the shattered remnants of the church door, saw the demon, saw Dean, Sam, and the small figure that stood between them. She watched the difficult scenario play out with cool detachment, analyzing her own behaviour and feelings. She saw action, reaction, and very little thought, saw herself blindly seek and use that gift which she had been raised to believe was both her responsibility, and her proud legacy.

It was strange, in a way it was the one part of herself with which she was wholly comfortable. And the one part which she had never really taken apart and dissected, as was her wont. It was hard to describe it now, to divulge that very personal, private part of herself, that was also what she shared most easily. It was big and bright and warm inside her, and when she used it, when she called it forth and stroked away that nagging sliver of pain or doubt that her heart told her was lodged and biting in the soul of a stranger, she felt as though she had swallowed the sun. Healing others had helped Reggie to heal herself. How did she explain to Dean, that all she had done was feel.

"I don't really know exactly what I did that night. It was just" she shrugged,

"An instinct. I'd never done it before. But I'm a lot more in tune with my gift than Sam, or any of the other children you've encountered. I've known about mine, been using it, practically since I was in the womb. I wasn't alone, it was part of my heritage. Gran showed me, she taught me, how to control it, how to master it." S

he paused for a moment, trying to think of a way to make him understand. She'd never really had to explain it before. Gran had always just, known, and the rest of her family, well, they were content to accept that she was special, in an ephemeral, undefined way, and leave it at that. The strangest part was, she wanted to tell Dean, wanted him to understand.

"When Sam gets his visions, the power is out of his control, that's why they hurt him. He's just the conduit, it's using him, he's not using it. And as for the telekinesis"

"He told you about that!" Dean interrupted sharply, obviously surprised.

"Yes" she answered calmly.

"He thought maybe I could help him learn how to harness it."

"And can you?" asked Dean, hope sounded in his voice. Reggie shook her head.

"I don't know. It's not that similar to my power, and a lot of Sam's problem is self-denial and a lack of comfort and confidence. I think of my power as a gift, he thinks of his as a curse. Understandably so, considering that he thinks the demon somehow infected him with it, the night your mother died."

"But you don't" said Dean, reading the doubt in her tone.

"No" she answered,

"I don't. Gifts like ours can't be given. They simply are." She shrugged,

"I'm not saying that the demon might not have done something to bring what otherwise might have been a latent ability to the surface, but he's not the source of it. Gifts like ours" she gestured toward the sleeping Sam,

"They're part of a greater power."

"What" said Dean, "You mean like God?"

"No" she shook her head.

"God's far to simplistic a concept to embody what I'm talking about. It isn't good or bad. It can't be defined. It's more like, life, the power of life, everything that exists, in the entire universe. The natural" she looked at him,

"And the supernatural. It flows through everyone, some people are just" she searched for the right word,

"Open, I guess. So the power comes out in them, through them, in specific ways, and they are the ones who determine whether their power will be used for good or ill. At least, that's what my Grandmother taught me."

"Okay" said Dean, that made more sense to him than he'd been expecting. She wasn't telling him that the gifts she and Sam had were unconstrained maelstroms of power, that came with ironbound, predestined result clauses. The power didn't determine your destiny, you did, which was much more compatible with Dean's way of thinking.

"But that still doesn't explain how you stopped him, it, in the church, or how you stopped Hutchon in the apartment."

"Hmmm" she nodded,

"Hutchon was easier. My gift, it's all about emotion. I can sense what others are feeling" he fidgeted,

"And I can…share what I feel, and manipulate what others feel." He looked a little panicked.

"Not that I do, ever, in a negative way." She sighed,

"It's not as flashy or as overt as something like telepathy or telekinesis, but in the end, there is nothing more powerful. At least, not if you're human. Hutchon was the spirit of what had once been a man, and the soul is the ultimate source of our emotions, it's the part of us that feels, so, I just, let him feel some of what I was feeling. And I wasn't feeling very good at the time." Dean's teeth flashed whitely in the darkness.

"I remember" he said, but wasn't sidetracked,

"And with the demon?" Reggie sighed. That was a harder question to answer.

"I didn't hurt him, not the demon itself. It feels, but not the way we do. Its host did though. And that night" she shivered, remembering the killing rage that had swept through her,

"That night I had never, ever, felt that kind of fury before." She rubbed her arms unconsciously, on some level appalled at her own savageness.

"I _wanted to hurt it_, more than anything, I wanted to make it suffer. So I gathered it up, all the hurt, what I remembered of my grandmother's pain, my own," she looked at him, half apologetic,

"Yours, Sam's, and I fed it to him, squeezed him with it until the body couldn't take anymore and he had to flee."

"Wait" said Dean, "What do you mean, he _had to_ flee?"

"Just what it sounds like, he couldn't stay in the body, it was collapsing around him, if he had, he'd have died with it." Dean's eyes flickered, they were as sharp and hard as emeralds.

"Are you telling me, that if we can somehow trap the demon inside a host, and kill it, he dies too?"

Reggie thought back, remembered precisely what she had felt from the demon in the moment before it had fled. It had felt fear, a mortal fear.

"Yes" she answered firmly, "That's what I'm telling you." She felt the sharp flare of excitement within him.

"Sonofabitch" whispered Dean. There it was, what he'd been looking for, a way to end it, a way to kill it. Well, half the way at least. He had no idea how they might manage to trap the demon inside a human body, and the host seemed to become more or less physically indestructible once the demon took up residence, but hot damn, it was something. He looked at Reggie,

"Do you think you could do it again?" he asked, but she was shaking her head before he finished.

"I don't think so. I don't know if I'd ever be able to feel quite that way again; anything less then that all consuming hate, I don't think it would be enough." He nodded.

"It doesn't matter. We've got a start." He grinned at her,

"You did good."

She knew it was a close to a thank you as she would get.


	38. Chapter 38

Author's Note: I'm really, really sorry this took so long to get posted. It was a really hard chapter to write and I want to send lots of love and thanks to Skimmboardergirl for helping me out. It was much appreciated. Hopefully this will help us all to understand why Reggie is fighting her attraction to Dean so hard. Why she can't quite seem to trust him, or herself. Enjoy!

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It was two days and two long nights before they crossed the state border into Louisiana, traveling steadily east on the I10. Reggie had sat in the car and stared out the window, as the roads grew less dusty and the temperature steadily dropped. She sat in the back, away from Dean and barely spoke to Sam. Dean didn't know if her distant behaviour was the result of embarrassment, because he had seen something two nights ago in the car, her aching vulnerability, that she didn't want him to see, or if it was something else. Whatever progress he'd been thinking they'd made when they left Cullman, they'd taken two large steps back. Reggie wasn't just avoiding touching him, he swore to God she flinched every time he got near her. He HATED that. She made him feel like some sort of sick monster, because even in the face of her obvious distaste, he still wanted her. More than ever in fact. They drove past a small sign announcing the town of Sulphur Louisiana, population 22, 501, their new, temporary home. Dean barred his teeth in a harsh smile, the irony was killing him, and so was the silence.

Reggie had spent the ride thinking hard about her past. About her father. Immersing herself in the painful memories she usually avoided at all costs. She knew her cold, silent treatment of Dean wasn't fair, and she was even shutting out the worried Sam, but she'd thrown up a thick enough wall around herself to keep their emotions from filtering through and distracting her. What had happened in the car three days ago had seriously shaken her. To realize that she was dangerously close, closer than she had ever been, to giving herself over into the power of another. Something she swore she'd never do.

She had wanted to tell him those things, the ones she never told anyone. She had wanted to pour out the grief and the anger, at the aching injustice of her estrangement from her sister, explain the painful road that had brought her to such a dark place. She had seen the look on his face. She understood Dean, he was the protector, and he had offered, in that moment, offered her shelter, safety. And she had believed her could give it to her. She had wanted to lean, just for a second, on his strength, because she was tired, so very tired, of carrying the burden herself. But she couldn't tell him, so she had told him something else, and that information to, had been such that she had never shared before. To speak of her gift, to let him see that part of her, it had been…wonderful. To see his attitude change, to see him accept, and value that part of her. And now, she knew she had to be careful, she had to keep her distance, it was self preservation.

Her instinct for survival was to well honed, to strong. She wished she could explain to him that it wasn't his fault. It was just that men like Dean…No. She stopped herself, if that night in the car had driven home anything, it was that she was going to have to stop using that phrase, "like Dean". It was time that she admitted it, there were no other men _like Dean_. But regardless, he'd never understand. It would be like inviting someone to fall down the rabbit hole. Because that was what you would have to do to understand it, you'd have to leave the world you knew, and spend some time in the one she had known. Her father. With some distance, with some time, she was actually able to feel some pity for Daniel Thorpington. It had taken her a long time to realize that yes, he was twisted, and yes he was cruel, but he was also sick, truly mentally ill. He lived in a strange reality, that meshed well enough with the real world, as long as the contact was superficial, so it was only those who were close to him, within his sphere of power, that really ever saw the truth.

His one and only mission in life was to control, to know, that he could affect you. And if all he could make you feel was hate, that was fine by him, because it meant that he held the reigns. As long as he could hurt you, he had all the proof he needed of his own power. Of course, it hadn't begun that way. As a child she had not understood, and her love had been his favourd weapon. She didn't know why her father didn't seem to love her. She had done everything she could to please him, anything he asked. Including forgiveness. It had been something of a game, she realized now, to see how much hurt he could inflict, what vicious lies he could tell, and still have her forgive him. He would say those empty words, "I'm sorry", and it made her ill now, to think of how she would fly to his arms and let him wrap her in them; glad, in a twisted way, that he had hurt her, almost grateful, because it was the only time when he would show the affection she so desperately craved. Tears stung her eyes. It had been such a cruel mockery. She had been so starved for his love she would accept those empty motions in the place of the real thing, even when she had come to recognize the cycle, she could not help herself. For a long time, nothing he did, no matter how often he did it, was enough to crush the tiny flare of hope that lived inside her. The one that said, if she got an A on this test, or if she forgave him for destroying her favourite doll, he said it had been an accident after all, this time, when he hugged her, the touch would hold the warmth she craved.

But it never did, and eventually, she had begun to hate herself, for not being able to resist, for being so weak, and she began to rebel. She had stopped forgiving him, stopped seeking his attention, his affection. And their relationship had turned a new corner. Reggie had begun to fight. But no matter how she screamed, or what she said to him, how clear she made it that he was loathsome to her, he did not care. Because her hatred just signaled another kind of control. Daniel was a master manipulator, and he had many tools at his disposal. Reggie's self-esteem had been in ruins by the time she began to distance herself from him, and because, for all his cruelty, she had never quite been able to stop loving him, her sense of self-worth had never really recovered. As all children, she had originally blamed herself for his apathy, his anger, and he had instilled in her a seed of self-doubt so strong, planted and nurtured from her birth, that she carried it with her still. Her guilt had been another weapon to use against her. And as her rebellion grew, so did his arsenal.

Reggie was not Daniel's only target, her mother and younger sister also needed to be brought to heel. And though his other tactics never completely lost their potency, even after all this time, he still had the power to make her doubt herself, still dictated the wary, skittish way Reggie approached intimacy; it was ultimately through others that he would hurt her the most. He used them against each other. Reggie, her mother and her sister. He'd torture or malign Reggie to enrage Kristen, Kristen or Abbey to enrage Reggie, and Abbey, Abbey he could hurt solely on the basis of the fact that she loved him so much. She was the easiest, the most vulnerable. He'd whip you up, using whatever he needed to, the most depraved tactics, so casually, until you were screaming and spitting like an animal, and then walk away, calm as you please, having achieved his goal. In his hands, love, hate, anger, all emotion could be twisted, all had been weapons. But Abbey, she never stopped trying to make him love her. And Reggie, well she never stopped wanting, wanting him to love her, though she stopped thinking that she could make him love her.

And then there had been the helpless rage of knowing that she couldn't stop him, couldn't protect her mother or her sister. That she was caught in a cruel paradox. If she fought him, if she tried to protect them, draw his fire, he still won, because he'd gotten to her, and through her, her mother and sister. Her powerlessness was another kind of torture. He wanted her to fight back, and lose. And Reggie always lost. Either way, for twenty plus years, both girls had lived in a nightmare. Reggie had watched the one person she knew to be more worthy, stronger, than any other, tear herself apart with blame, and self-loathing. Her mother had always said that, as hard as she tried to stop it, living with a monster for forty years had changed her. Reggie had watched her father make Kristen into a person who no longer liked herself. For him it was the ultimate triumph, because if she no longer liked herself, than her sense of self worth would slowly evaporate, leaving her more susceptible to him than ever. As for Reggie, well, she knew what it was like.

He made you so paranoid, pushed on every front, tortured you to the point where you lashed out at even the most benign behaviour, sure that it was some kind of cruel trick, something he was going to use against you. And to the outside world, you looked like the monster, and he the innocent. And nothing was worse than the resulting hypocrisy. Where you went about your everyday life, trapped behind a wall of rage and pain, swallowing the screams that tore at your throat, and played happy family. It became such that even the simplest act, her father picking her up from a dance lesson, was a blow. She would look at all the other fathers and see the pride and love in their faces, and get into the car, a fake grin plastered all over her face, so no one else would know, that she had completed her hundred plies in first, and was going home to hell.

Emotional Abuse. It was painfully ironic, that someone with her gift should have been subjected to that. It had almost killed her, almost. She'd finally struggled free, and even that had come at a cost. She had had to leave, leave Kristen behind, and Abbey. Slowly, she started to learn to trust again, if just a little. It became evident, even to her, that she was battered, but he hadn't broken her. Kristen and her extended family, they had saved her, taught her that love could be a blessing, and not a curse. She would always carry the invisible scars, her own, her mother's, her sister's, even his, on her soul, but she had slowly managed to build up a life for herself, managed to learn to love again, friends, family….but not a man. No, that, he still, would always, deny her. Because that was where the real risk lay. And she couldn't take it, couldn't trust herself enough not to love in the soul-deep, utter and complete way she knew that she would, if someone ever go that close. She would never again allow herself to _need_ the love of another in that way.

When they pulled into the shabby little motel, Reggie was the first one out of the car. She practically bolted. Dean gritted his teeth.


	39. Chapter 39

Author's Note: Okay, since the last chapter was so long in coming, I thought I would post this now. This chapter is informally dedicated to all those who have haraunged me for more sexual tension.

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After check in, Reggie wandered about the motel room, still lost in her own thoughts. She'd veered away from her dark past, dwelling on it for nearly forty-eight straight hours had exhausted her. And it had made her snappy, and jumpy, and far more hyper aware of Dean and the threat he posed than she had been since they first met. She knew he noticed the wide berth she gave him as she headed into the bathroom, the tension that stretched painfully between them, but she just couldn't help the way she felt.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he watched Reggie vanish behind the bathroom door. He didn't know exactly what in the hell was going on, but the stiff, stressful atmosphere that had permeated the car ride had followed them into the motel. He wanted to grab Reggie and shake her. To demand that she trust him, tell him what was going on inside that head of hers. But he couldn't. He had made his choice a long time ago, he would never be that person, _the person_, for any woman. The one with whom they trusted their deep, dark secrets, the one they trusted to comfort and protect them. And he would never be that person for Reggie. And no one would ever be that person for him. In fact, he wasn't so sure he wasn't part of her problem, though he'd be damned if he could figure out what exactly he'd done to make her act this way. It was making him nuts.

In the bathroom Reggie dug through her bag and cursed silently. She was practically out of clean clothes and she only had one pair of pajamas left. Looking at the flimsy tank top and the matching baby-doll shorts, both in a soft, shell pink, she knew she'd be damned if she was wearing that when Dean was sleeping beside her. It was all his fault anyway. She'd wanted to stop at a laundromat yesterday, but he'd insisted on driving straight through, and she'd bet a town the size of Sulphur didn't have one that was open past five o'clock. It was nearly midnight. All the emotional strain and frustration of the past few days bubbled up inside her. Throwing open the bathroom door, she stomped out into the room.

"I need my other suitcase" she said to Dean, not looking at him. She's have preferred to ask Sam, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Why?" he asked irritably, as cranky as she.

"Because."

"Because why?"

Her head snapped around so she could glare at him. He figured it was an improvement, at least she was looking at him and not the wall. Deliberately provoking, he leaned back against the door and raised an eyebrow.

Reggie sucked in a breath and tried to calm down. She knew that her anger was irrational, but _goddamn it_, the man brought out the worst in her.

She would try to be reasonable,

"Because I don't have any clean pajamas" she said with forced calm. _There_ she thought to herself, _That was very civilized._

Dean didn't know why he did it, well, he did. He did it because her attitude was getting to him, and because he was tired and dirty, and too frustrated to be mature.

"No."

"_NO!" _ her voice rose, "What do you mean _no_?"

"I mean that I'm tired and I don't want to go back to the car, haul out that brick-filled behemoth that you call a suitcase, and lug it back here."

"I'll do it myself" she spat out.

He shook his head, "No way, you might dent something, trying to wrangle that thing. It's as big as you. I'm not risking my bumper."

He walked over to his own bag and rummaged. She barely got a hand up in time to snag the bundle of black cloth he fired at her.

"What's this?" she demanded.

He shrugged, "You can borrow it for tonight."

She looked down at the bundle as it unrolled to reveal it was actually a black, cotton tee-shirt.

"I can't wear_ your shirt!"_ Even as the words came out of her mouth, the tiny voice in her head that she hated said, _Why not? You sleep in his bed._

"It's clean" he bit out.

Reggie opened her mouth, but decided to shut it again when she got a look a Dean's face. His eyes were stormy, and he looked as though he were just waiting, hoping, that she was going to say something that would give him and excuse to…..what she wasn't exactly sure, and it was that uncertainty that had her retreating into the bathroom, clutching the shirt.

Reggie stood in front of the mirror and looked at the shirt in her hands. The cotton was soft, worn, and fading towards grey. She gulped as her fingers ran over it, trying no to think about how many times if must have fit over his broad shoulders and wide chest. Accepting the inevitable, she closed her eyes, removed her pants and socks, and slid on the pink shorts. She took a deep breath and pulled of her shirt and bra. Standing half-naked in the bathroom, she grasped the supple fabric, and tried not to imagine it sliding over Dean's skin the way it slid over hers, as she tugged the black material over her head. It slipped down her body, the soft folds almost caressing, catching, just for a moment, on the generous swell of her breasts. His shirt, that had intimately hugged his body. She was already over-sensitive, her mind, and her body, to Dean. To her, it might as well have been his hands that stroked slowly over her. Her breath exploded out and she sank weakly to the floor, and put her head in her hands. This, right here, this was the heart of the problem. It wasn't Dean, it was her, or more precisely, her reaction to him.

Reggie's relationship with her father hadn't really made her afraid of men. Those who were like her father she could simply despise and avoid; those who were willing to go quietly into the 'harmless' category, she could like, appreciate, even care for, from a safe, platonic, distance. But men like Dean, no, not men like him. Just Dean. He tempted her, and that made him by far the most frightening of all. The real reason for her edgy, skittish, up-tight behaviour over the last few days, was that little slip she'd had while talking to Camille. The one that had made her realize that she _wanted him._ Wanted him to touch her. God. No one had ever been able to make her ache for that physical consummation, not with the knowledge of what that kind of surrender would mean for her screaming in her head. But he did. And that scared her senseless.

If she could want Dean this much physically, if he could tie her in knots of desire, make the hot, liquid fist of need clench in her stomach, it meant her heart was in serious danger, her soul. That he could make her want, let alone consider, what he made her want, was terrifying. It meant she wasn't in control. It meant, if she let herself, she would give him the power she had flatly refused to give to anyone else. The power to hurt her, and she'd fought too long and too hard to be her own master, to risk that. But sitting wrapped in his shirt, and seeing his face, the heavy-lidded jade eyes that flamed gold when they looked at her, the blunt jaw, the mouth. God, seeing the full sensuous, seductive curve of his lips in her mind's eye, she thought they looked as though they should belong to a fallen angel. Lascivious perfection designed to tempt, a mouth made for slow, sweet sinning. The wicked, delicious kind you couldn't quite regret in the morning. To say nothing of the hands.

_Argh!_ Reggie fisted her hands in her hair. She had to stop this. If she gave her body she wouldn't be able to hold anything back, her heart would follow, and he would _own_ her. And she couldn't trust him, couldn't trust herself, to be able to come out of it still a whole person. Wrapping her arms around her knees, Reggie took deep, slow breaths, until her turbulent thoughts, and feelings, settled once more under the force of her will. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. At least the shirt covered her. She shook her head. It was an understatement. The sleeves hung past her elbows and the hem well past mid thigh. The shorts were completely concealed beneath the long garment, and the loose material hid her body in a shapeless mass of black. Still, it took her several extra moments to pluck up enough courage to open the door and walk back into the room where Dean was.

Dean sat in the chair by the door and waited. He didn't really know what for, until he heard the bathroom door creak open. He considered, for a split second, trying to resist the urge to look at her, knowing it would only make her uncomfortable, but only for a second. After Cullman, he had more or less given up that battle. It was one he couldn't win after all. Instead, he spent his days, and nights, in an almost painful state of semi-arousal, tortured by Reggie's constant presence. Her tantalizing nearness in the night. But he didn't do anything about it because he still wasn't the kind of man who could give her the things she deserved, and, she made it more than clear, that no matter what happened between them at night when she slept, awake, she wanted noting to do with him. And her actions over the past few days only emphasized that. _Christ!_ He knew he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding how much he wanted her, but really, the wary way she looked at him and carefully avoided contact, it made him feel like some sort of low, dangerous, sex-starved maniac.

Letting his hungry gaze travel up the long, pale length of bare leg exposed by his shirt, he thought that maybe, just maybe, she was right. He wasn't made for this kind of thing. This sort of never-ending, half-slaked, make you crazy desire, that couldn't, _wouldn't_, be satisfied by anything or anyone else. Absently, he wondered how anyone that short could have legs that long. _God! _It was ridiculous what it did to him to see her wearing his shirt. The damn thing hung on her small frame like a tent. But it didn't matter, all he could think about was the fact that what had once touched him was now touching her. Her whole body, all over, the way he ached to. It was obscenely erotic. He closed his eyes and fought to control his unruly body, he was throbbing from head to toe. _Jesus._ The last time he'd had this little command over himself he'd been a teenager! But controlling his body and its helpless reaction to Reggie was one thing, and he was getting good at it, from all the practice he'd had over the past weeks, controlling his unruly thoughts was something else. When his eyes opened again they pined her with a blazing green gaze. She twisted her hands in the loose fabric of the shirt nervously, his eyes narrowed into burning slits as the material rode up her thighs a few inches.

All he could think was how much he wanted to stand up, walk across the room, and bury his tongue in her mouth. To kiss her until they both just stopped thinking, and then run his hands up the creamy white flesh currently on display, open her, and pleasure them both so hot and hard and deep, they wouldn't even be able to lick their lips after. And he knew, just _knew_, that's how it would be. There was fire buried behind all those walls, he was sure.

But it didn't matter what he wanted, because she clearly had a much easier time resisting him, than he had resisting her. He shook his head, he should probably be grateful….and he could really use a distraction right about now. Where the hell was Sam when he needed him! But Sam didn't come. He'd muttered something vague about food and left a about half an hour ago, so Dean was left to fend for himself. Straightening from the chair he walked toward the bathroom, clenching his jaw so hard it ached, when Reggie scooted quickly around the bottom of the bed to avoid him. He slammed the door behind him.

Reggie let out the breath she was holding when Dean finally disappeared behind the bathroom door. He was angry. Very, very angry, and she told herself she didn't want to know why, as she resolutely yanked up the covers and climbed into bed. She couldn't help it if her body tensed at every little sound, if her breath caught every time the wind rustled the leaves on the tree outside. She was wound tighter than a bow string, waiting for Dean to reappear. When he finally did, flicking out the bathroom light with a lazy swipe of his long arm, and headed towards the bed, she closed her eyes and very deliberately thought of nothing. It wasn't until after she'd felt the mattress sag under his greater weight, felt him settle, that she dared to open her eyes. Just in time to see him reach for her. Her taughtly wound nerves screeched, and her breath exploded in a little scream, as she jerked up, banging the back of her skull hard against the headboard.


	40. Chapter 40

Author's Note: Okay, I knew, based on subject matter alone, that last chapter would be popular, but I am really glad that you all liked it so much! I am posting this now because I feel badly that Chap. 39 ended in a bit of a cliffhanger. I had a real struggle with myself over what to do here, I hope you think I made the right decision. Happy Reading!

p.s. Somehow, I forgot this opeing bit when posting earlier. Opps.

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When Dean exited the bathroom he was grateful to see that she was under the covers, and all that luscious, enticing skin hidden from view. He scowled, she also had the sheets pulled up right under her chin, like a child hiding from the big bad wolf. In the bathroom, he'd stared at is own reflection in the mirror and sternly told himself to get a grip. Then he'd taken a deep breath, held it, and counted to ten, and then twenty, and then thirty, while he waited for the hot, heavy rushing of his blood to subside. He'd briefly considered taking a cold shower, but figured he'd suffered enough for one day, brushed his teeth, changed into his sweats and tee-shirt, and gone back out. He'd climbed into bed, looked at Reggie's face, her eyes were scrunched closed, and leaned over to turn out the bedside lamp. That's when she'd screamed.

Dean heard the _crack_, as Reggie's head made contact with the bed, and saw the sudden fear in her eyes. Adrenaline pumped through him, his hand reaching for the knife he'd already tucked under the adjacent pillow, until he realized that it was him she was afraid of.

"_For Fuck's Sake!"_ he snarled.

His anger over her behaviour overcame his better judgment. He had chaffed under the insult of her aversion, her fright, for too long, especially since, even though it was practically killing him to keep this hands off her, that's exactly what he'd been doing. The tight leash he kept himself on loosened, just a little. Reaching out, he grabbed her roughly by the back of the head and forced her to look at him. The golden eyes were wide with alarm. His own, darkened to a green so deep it was just this side of black, bore into hers.

"Have I ever, _ever_" he ground out the words,

"Given you reason to treat me like some sort of convicted rapist, or depraved monster, intent on ravaging you at any second?" He demanded..

"Have I or have I not, slept in the same damn bed with you every night for a _week¸ _and never laid so much as a finger on you!" A little voice in his head whispered that that wasn't exactly true, but he ignored it, it was as far as she was concerned.

The soft light of the single lamp cast a deep, warm glow over the bed where Reggie half lay, half sat, with Dean's body leaning over her. She was imprisoned between his large hands, and even more than that, by his pained, tumultuous gaze. Reggie stared up into Dean's shadowed eyes, staggered by what she felt. There were so many emotions churning there, all struggling for control of him. But he was not ruled by them. Reggie relaxed. Despite his outburst, he was, as always, in complete control of himself. He was angry, but that wasn't all. It came crashing through the barrier she'd erected to keep him out. It shocked her. She'd hurt him. With her fear and her mistrust, oh how she'd hurt him. Remorse immediately flooded her. He was right, he'd never done anything to her, except help her when she needed it, and try to protect her. All the issues, all the speculation, all the tension, all the fear, those were her problems, and she'd had no right, no right, to treat him as she had. He had been kind, gentle, honest, decent.

"Dean."

Her voice was soft, and not at all what he'd been expecting. His left hand was buried in the soft, curling silk of her hair, and his right was on her shoulder, pinning her to the mattress. He could feel the tension ease out of her body, only to be replaced by a humming sense of urgency. And what she did next threw him.

Reggie sat up towards Dean. His hands automatically loosened their grip, allowing the movement, but following the flow of her body. Having finally touched her, he could not quite bring himself to let go. Not yet. Instead, his hands hovered lightly, his fingers tangled into the ends of her golden-bronze curls, and his right hand curved gently around her arm. He sucked in his breath as Reggie pressed her palm flat against his chest, just over his heart. It leaped under her fingers, it was the first time she'd ever voluntarily touched him. The warmth of his flesh seeped through the material of his shirt, Reggie felt herself flush.

"I'm sorry" she whispered it.

"It's not you, it's all me. I never, never meant to make you feel that way." Her voice vibrated with conviction. She willed him to believe it with all her might, even going so far as to project the sincerity of her feelings towards him, trying to undo some of what she had unwittingly done.

Dean sat back slightly in amazement, he couldn't just see the apology in her eyes, he could _feel_, that she was sorry. Feel the truth in the words she spoke. He knew on some level that she must be using her gift on him, but he didn't balk. The tenuous connection that flowed between them fairly shimmered in the air. His right hand slid down her arm to wrap loosely around the wrist of hand she held over his heart. And what he did next shocked both of them. Lifting it, cradling her small hand in his large one, he pressed a gentle kiss into the center of her palm.

Reggie's mouth opened on a little gasp, when she felt the fleeting pressure of Dean's warm, supple lips rubbing over her sensitive skin, and when he lifted his head, her fingers closed, as if to hold onto the sensation. His touch was electric, intoxicating, fissions of warmth shivered up her arm from the place where his mouth had caressed her, spreading though her body. She trembled and looked up. He stared at her, she stared at him.

The room feel into an unnatural, uncomfortable stillness, their harsh breathing the only sound, each afraid to move, both fighting for control, understanding, of what had happened between them. Finally, Dean pulled away from Reggie, breaking the spell, practically falling back to his side of the bed. She continued to stare at the place where he had been. _What in the hell was that! _He demanded of himself. He couldn't imaging what had come over him. He ran an awkward hand through his hair, trying to bannish the little sparks that thrilled through his fingers where he had touched her. But he couldn't stop the throbbing of his lips, nor the tingling of the imprint left by her hand over his heart. Discomfited and restless, he shifted self-consciously beside her.

Well, at least he had accomplished something, he thought looking at her stiff profile, now they could _both_ be uncomfortable with touching. He would never have believed that this day would come, when he, Dean Winchester, would be made too uncertain to touch a woman. And worse, not just uncertain of her! He was suddenly uncertain of himself. Reggie made him feel and want things that he had never before felt or wanted, things he could not have. Dean scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. He just, didn't want to think about what had happened. He was tired, she was tired, they were both stressed out. Better to just forget it. It could mean to much.

"Sleep?"

Dean's monotone suggestion gave Reggie the reprieve she'd been praying for. If she had had to deal with this, with all the whirling, conflicting emotions that she was feeling tonight, she might make a decision she'd regret. She didn't know herself anymore, this hot, feavered, yearning body, it barely felt like it belonged to her. She was so used to being in control, always, of herself. Her passions, desires, even her needs, they had never spiraled away from the cool, calm grip of her reason, the way they were now. She needed time. She was off balance and desperate to regain command of herself.

"Deal" she answered, and in silent accord, they both lay down in the dark, on opposite sides of the bed.

It took Reggie a long time to fall asleep that night, and it took Dean even longer. If Sam sensed some of the residual strain between them when he came in a hour later, if he noticed the stiffness of the two formless lumps at opposing extremities of the mattress, he was smart enough not to mention it. His weary

"Goodnight", as he sank gratefully into his bed, was met by a subdued,

"Sleep well" from Reggie, and a curt,

"Night" from Dean.

Dean lay in the dark and waited for Reggie's breathing to even out into sleep. His own earlier comment playing over and over in his mind. _Never laid so much as a finger on you._ It wasn't true. He held her close, tightly, intimately, every night. And for the first time he wondered, was afraid, that maybe he forced that on her. In spite of her reaction to his touch, her earlier fear and her obvious desire to avoid him made him wonder. He was always asleep when it happened. Maybe she was only in his arms because he put her there. If that were true, he didn't know if he could bear it. So for the first time while he was awake, he turned toward her, and reached for Reggie in the dark. He had to know.

He'd barely brushed her shoulder with his fingertips, before she was turning, seeking, flowing towards him. Her body settling with fluid ease along the length of his. Her arms reaching up of their own accord to wind about his neck, the silken skin of her cheek brushing over his own where it was exposed by the vee-neck of his shirt, as she nestled her head under his chin. One of those long, slender legs lifted to hook over his hip. He sighed deeply with relief, as his arms came up to cradle her, his warm breath stirring the hair by her temple. This was easy, if not simple. All the discomfort, the doubt, the tension from earlier drained out of him. This was all he had, all he could have, and it scared him to admit, he needed it. He would find a way to deal with what had happened, what was happening, he could resist everything but this. He wouldn't complicate it, wouldn't analyze this gift. The inexplicable solace of her unconscious embrace he would simply accept. As long as there was this, everywhere else they could return to the safe, slightly distant mode of their previous interactions. He relaxed, and resisted the urge to run a hand up the long length of bare leg looped over his left thigh, he wouldn't violate her trust. Dean went to sleep.

When Reggie awoke the next morning Dean was, as usual, already up and gone. She was grateful. Facing him across a rumpled expanse of shared sheets would not have done much to help her deal with what had happened the night before. That was, if she could even be sure of what had happened. His anger, his hurt, and his gentleness, it had all been so unexpected. And what was worse, it made her more, not less, susceptible to him. Knowing he wanted her back was more than a little unnerving, but his actions had also let her know that he wasn't going to push. He would leave her alone. And wasn't that what she wanted after all? _Yes_, she told herself firmly, _It is_. She wanted to be safe, even if that meant being alone. It only took a moment, a quick flash back to her dark journey down memory lane, to remind her that Dean was still dangerous, more dangerous. The question was, how did they deal with what had happened between them last night, in a way that would allow them to function normally? The door opened and Dean and Sam strolled in. Sam set a cup down next to the bed.

"Tea" he said with a smile. She smiled back, a bit wanly.

"Thanks" she said, taking up the steaming cup. Dean moved around the room gathering up their things, she watched him from the corner of a wary eye.

"We have to get going soon" he said, looking up at Reggie, his expression and tone as casual as you please,

"Houma is still a few hours away."

Well, she had her answer, or at least Dean's. They were going to ignore it.

_Works for me_, she thought to herself. Maybe, if they pretended it had never happened, she could come to believe that it hadn't. Looking down at her right hand, she curled her fingers over the spot where he had kissed her.

Maybe, but not very likely.

Dean busied himself loading the Impala while Reggie got ready to go. He told himself firmly that this was the way it had to be. If last night had shown him anything, it was that his want for Reggie included a lot more than just the physical. It was getting a lot deeper, and a lot scarier, than that. It wasn't fair to either of them. Dean couldn't afford to need other people. All he needed was his family, and now, that was just Sam. He needed to be able to pick up and go, and not to have to worry about anyone else. It was the life he'd been born to, or rather reborn. Out of the flames that had killed his mother, he had been made anew. This was the life he'd been raised to lead, and the one he chose. There wasn't any room for a woman like Reggie. He wouldn't risk her, or himself. Following his calling, his sense of justice and duty, meant he walked on the other side of lonely, he always would. He was both the leaver, and also, always, the left.

To be the kind of man Reggie deserved the would have to give up too large a part of himself. He would never be that person, _the person_, for any woman; the one who was always there, with whom they shared all their fears and secrets, and no woman would ever be that person for him. His head bowed for second, but came up resolutely a moment later. _He_ _was a hunter_. He could not remember a time when he had not had that certainty to sustain him, could not conceive of himself without that single, blinding, defining truth. That basic statement carried as much weight as _I am Dean, _or,_ I am the son of Mary and John Wincester, _or,_ I am Sam's brother. _He could be nothing else and still be himself. And what about Sam? He couldn't afford to be distracted from his mission, to save the brother he loved above all else. He was just going to have to keep his distance and get over it. He had done it before. He flatly refused to hear the small voice that pointed out he had _never_, felt about anyone, the way he felt about Reggie.

He barely glanced at her when she walked outside, slung her duffle into the back seat and crawled in after it. Her attitude towards him bespoke the same casual indifference he had affected back in the room. At least it looked like they were on the same page. As he settled into the driver's seat and coaxed the car into growling life, Reggie and Sam began to chat easily about the possible reasons a spirit, if it was a spirit, might haunt an apple tree. He gave a small smile of relief, things would just, go back to normal.


	41. Chapter 41

Author's Note: Hi everyone, thanks so much for the awesome reviews. Time for us to see how Reggie and Dean's little excercise in denial is going to effect their hunting. Enjoy!

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As the Impala sped along toward Houma Dean tried to distract himself with thoughts of work, pretending to listen to Sam and Reggie's conversations about ghostly motivations. But in his mind, he saw the hazy golden lamplight cruise over Reggie's fine-grained skin, saw her eyes glow with confused passion as she stared at him, her full, pink lips slightly parted….. No, nope, unuh, he told himself firmly, banishing the stirring image and reigning in his rebellious thoughts. Work. Impending doom, apocalypse, death, demons, crazy-ass killer trees, surely that ought to be enough to keep his treacherous mind occupied. He glanced sideways at Sam. His brother's face was drawn. Dean felt guilt wash over him.

He'd been so caught up in his personal drama with Reggie, that he hadn't spent much time thinking about how to help his brother. He hadn't even shared the good news. For a moment, he debated whether or not he should bring up the conversation he had had with Reggie about the demon. It seemed like ages ago, but really, it was only three days. But surely enough time had passed between their uncomfortable talk and the present, it shouldn't bother her too much. Still he hesitated, he was determined to maintain the fragile illusion of normalcy he had busily begun building, and since he and Reggie seemed to have found their way back to some semblance of an even keel, would now be a good time to tell Sam what she had told him about the demon? Really, their current, uncomfortable situation was a direct result of that night, when she had shown him more of her wounded soul than she meant to. But damn it, he wanted to see Sam smile, see some of the perpetual worry and strain that masked his brother's young face alleviated. Hammer it. If things really were going to go back to normal, they couldn't spend all their time tiptoeing around one another, and going out of their way to make sure that their eyes didn't meet in the rearview mirror. When he had finished, Sam sat silently beside him. Dean tried to read his expression but it was inscrutable.

Sam sat still, thunderstruck by what Dean had told him. It was the news he never really thought he'd hear. It was the first real indication of hope that they had had. There was a way, a way to win the war, to stop their immortal enemy. There was a way to be free. If the demon was gone, Sam would no longer have to look over his shoulder, wondering what evil seed, or darkness that monster had planted inside him. What hidden beast he was just waiting to call forth from Sam's depths. He could go home, have a home, have a normal life, have Cami? He swallowed hard, and looked at Dean with glad eyes.

"That's great" his tone was soft but full of conviction.

Dean nodded. "It is." He glanced back at Reggie,

"I didn't forget anything, did I?" he asked, trying to read her reaction to the blatant reminder of that night, to see if he had jeopardized their unspoken agreement, that declared anything to do with the discomfiting physical and emotional tempest they had stumbled into taboo. He knew that neither of them had meant to fall off that jagged precipice, it was just that they had been so busy refusing to acknowledge it, that they hadn't seen how close they were to the edge. But now they knew, they both knew, and he knew how fatal another slip could be. The bone-crushing, soul-killing self-denial that might await him on the treacherous rocks below. He could well imagine how easy it would be, to smash and tear himself apart, trying to be something he was not.

Reggie shook her head. Hearing Dean relate what she had told him three nights ago in the dark car brought back uncomfortable memories. Though none of the silent understanding that had passed between them was present in the words he spoke to his brother, her mind easily filled in the subtext of pain, fear, and vulnerability that the words left out. Still, she couldn't be upset. She had felt the shaft of hope that had pierced through Sam, felt the lightening of Dean's heart when he saw some of the shadows lift from his baby brother's troubled eyes. However, talk of the demon also brought back other dark memories, caused phantom flames to seethe warningly in her mind. There was something that the Winchesters didn't know. She'd never gotten around to telling them about her horrifying nightmare, the one where she had seen her grandmother burn, again. She hadn't told them about the new message, there had just been to much going on, and now she was going to have to go back, to relive it, to tell them.

"Ummm, there is something" she said, her voice betraying her unwillingness to touch on the subject.

Dean and Sam both looked up, identical, sharp expressions of interest on their faces.

"What?" demanded Dean. Reggie nodded,

"It's not really about the demon, exactly. It's just, you know that dream I had about my grandmother, the one where she told me to find the tree", Reggie's hand went to the pendant around her neck, taking comfort in its familiar shape, as she remembered the horror of that night.

"Well, I'm afraid you were wrong Sam. It wasn't over, I did have another one."

"What! When?" he cried, "What happened, what did your grandmother say?"

Reggie took a breath, "She said 'You'll be safe with the forty-eighth.'"

"What?" said Dean, confused.

"Does that mean anything to you?" She shook her head despairingly.

"No, not a thing. Last time I figured out she was talking about the pendant pretty quickly, but this" she made a helpless gesture with her hands,

"I've got absolutely nothing." She gulped,

"And there was something else." Sensing her distress, Sam reached over the seatback to squeeze her arm.

"You've got to tell us Reggie. It could be important." She nodded.

"When" her voice hitched but she continued,

"When she told me, she…..she, _burned_, _again_" her voice was strangled, and for a moment, all she saw was the towering inferno of fire that had spread to consume the dreamscape, and spilled over into her waking mind. It was burning her still.

Dean's eyes narrowed as Sam comforted Reggie, who took deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself.

"Shit. And you're sure you don't have any idea what she's talking about", Reggie shook her head from side to side.

"No. Why, you think it's important?"

Dean exchanged a look with Sam.

"Yeah, I think it's important. It sounds to me like the demon was trying to stop your grandmother from telling you. Which means that it's something he doesn't want us to know."

"Which means it's really important that we find out what she meant" finished Sam.

"But first" muttered Dean, "We have to deal with Sam's friggin' killer apples."

It was about 7 degrees Celsius in Houma, not quite cold enough for frost, but, thought Dean, it also sure as hell wasn't warm enough for him to be seeing what he was seeing. They hadn't had much trouble finding the place. It was a large, well-known local property on the edge of the small city, bordering the town on one side, and the woods on the other. The spacious grounds were covered with the bare skeletons of fruit trees, arranged in neat rows, which lead from the main road up toward an old farm house on a hill in the distance. And they could clearly see, as they turned down the lane marked, "Smithwick's Orchards", that right, smack dab in the middle of all the dead, winter wood, was a healthy, fruit-bearing apple tree.

The leaves were almost vermillion, and the tree looked perfectly normal, except for the lush fruit which hung from the branches. Even from a distance, the apples were unnaturally perfect looking, and each was coloured a deep, iridescent black, which seemed to swallow rather than reflect, the weak winter sunshine.

"What in the hell?" he muttered to himself, as the Impala pulled up along the side of the narrow dirt road that led through the orchard toward the main house.

"Told you" said Sam.

"Yeah, Yeah" shot back Dean.

Piling out of the car, Dean opened the trunk and began to distribute shotguns. When he handed one to Reggie she made a face. He hesitated.

"I don't suppose you'd stay in the car?" he asked. She looked at him in suprise,

"No" she replied firmly.

"I didn't think so" he muttered. He was worried. What she had told them in the car, about her grandmother's spirit, and the demon's obvious interference in her dreams, made him edgy. Served to remind him that Reggie was still in very real danger from the yellow-eyed bastard, and that he, of all people, should not be putting her in situations where she was at further risk from the supernatural forces her unexpected meeting with the Winchesters had thrust so abruptly into her life.

Racking his own gun, he caught her eyes with his,

"Now, this time, if you see something that looks like a ghost, what do you do?"

Reggie rolled her eyes,

"I know, I know, I shoot it."

"Yeah" he said it sarcastically, not impressed by her nonchalance,

"Well last time, you forgot."

She made another face, "Which worked to our benefit, if you'll recall."

"That was a fluke" he responded, and his voice lowered.

"I mean it, if you're not going to take this seriously, you're staying in the car."

There was no way she was getting possessed, or anything else, not again, not on his watch. Once was more than enough.

Reggie's hands came to rest on her hips and her eyes narrowed. She hated it when he got that authoritarian ring to his voice.

"One, just because I don't like the shotgun, doesn't mean I'm not capable of using it. Two, I don't appreciate your overbearing attitude Neanderthal man. And three, let's just remember who saved whose ass from Hutchon in the woods."

"You had Marnie with you" he said. Her eyes darkened,

"Maybe so, but I'm still coming."

Dean gave up. "Fine."

Sam raised his eyebrows, the tension between them was suddenly thick enough to cut with a knife. But Dean turned his back without further argument, and the three began to pick their way through the yellowing grass toward the tree. Dean looked at Sam,

"All the reports are recent right? If it is a spirit, I wonder what woke it up?"

Sam pointed to the swell of the hill behind them, as they moved away from the road and the car, the vast construction sight at the back of the property came into view.

"Looks like a housing development" he said.

"Yeah" replied Dean, taking in the deep, black looking scars in the earth where foundations had been dug.

"That'd about do it."

Sam shook is head as they drew nearer to the tree. It had an odd, eerie beauty.

"It's one helluva thing to see" he said, looking at the apples that ornamented the branches. Each was like a tiny black hole, sucking in and devouring the light around it, making little slices of midnight that stood out sharply against the bright noon sky.

"I wonder what's causing it. I mean, the apples, they could have specific significance, it's a really old topos. Goes all the way back to original sin" he shot a look at his brother. Dean grunted, ignoring Sam's little dig at him.

"I don't know" said Reggie, as they approached,

"All I can think of when I look at it is Snow White and the Seven Dwarves."

Dean shook his head,

"Just because it's a fairytale doesn't mean that it, like all legends, doesn't have some basis in truth. And besides, fairytales only have happy endings in the modern world. Originally, they're dark, nasty, and damn scary. That was the whole point. I mean c'mon. Even in the Disney version of Snow White, the jealous older woman sends a girl into the forest with a guy whose supposed to murder her, cut out her heart, and bring it back in a box. That's like, serial killer caliber stuff. And that's the kid's version." And he had to admit, that as skeptical as he had been, this definitely didn't look like kid's stuff to him.

Sam looked at her and smiled rather darkly.

"And that's why it's our kind of problem. Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's off to work we go." He sang the familiar tune with an expression of grim sarcasm.

Reggie winced, she'd never really thought of it like that before, and as they approached, she began to think that the Winchesters were right. Her senses were picking up on something, something fleeting, indefinable, but definitely sinister. A cool wind suddenly picked up, rustling the leaves on the tree and making Reggie shiver. She felt like it was watching them.

"Uh guys" she said, as Sam and Dean approached the tree.

"Yeah" they answered absently, in tandem.

"I'm getting something pretty unpleasant vibes from" she gestured toward the tree, "Well, from it."

"Hmmm" said Dean, as he and Sam began to carefully circle the tree. There was nothing registering on his EMF. He paused to look back at Reggie, who had stopped a few paces behind them, and that was when he heard it. Like a thousand, tiny voices whispering, a breathy echo in his ear.

_Eat me_.

"What?" he said, turning to look behind him. Sam looked over at him,

"Dude, I didn't say anything."

Dean beetled his eyebrows and shook his head,

"Right." The wind blew coldly,

_Bastard._

"Hey!" He looked darkly at Sam.

Sam was looking concerned.

"I _didn't_ say anything. You okay?" he asked.

"What?" said Dean,

"Oh, fine." He stared hard at the glossy, obsidian globes hanging from the branch beside his head.

_Bastard, Bitch, Whore!_

His eyes widened, but Dean had seen to many strange and unusual things to doubt his instincts, no matter how improbable seeming the source of the danger. The shotgun swung up, and salt shot tore through the soft flesh of the offending fruit and ripped holes in the tender green leaves. Sam came around the other side of the tree at a dead run, shotgun at the ready. He found Dean alone, looking at the shattered, pulpy remains of an eviscerated apple.

"Dude" he said, skidding to a stop, "Did you just shoot, _a tree_?"

"Man" said Dean, disbelief and chagrin sounding in his voice,

"My character was just maligned by evil, talking _fruit!_ This is seriously twilight zone, even for us."

"Are you sure?" asked Sam, sweeping his EMF along the edge of the branches,

"I'm not getting anything. Maybe you were just" he shrugged,

"Hearing things."

Dean glared at him,

"I am not hearing things" he snapped,

"The damn thing called me _a bitch!_"

Sam shrugged helplessly,

"Man, the EMF says there's nothing here." Dean scowled at him,

"Well I'm telling you there is."

"Okay" Sam held out his hands, "We'll keep looking."

"Bloody Hell!" muttered Dean, looking suspiciously at the perfect, jet black orbs that littered the ground. He held his breath. Nothing. His eyes narrowed, he was _positive_ he hadn't imagined it, but still, the EMF refused to cooperate. No matter how carefully he scanned the outer branches, the device remained stubbornly silent.

Behind Sam and Dean, Reggie stood rooted to the spot, as strangely muted sensations flickered at the edges of her senses. A flash of hate, anger, fear. She jumped when she heard Dean fire the shotgun. Looking up in alarm, she saw he and Sam hold a brief, intense conversation, and then go back to their examination. She lifted her foot to take a step toward them, and froze. She saw Dean move forward, leaning down to pick up one of the black apples from where it lay amid the grass with one hand, his EMF in the other. He stepped under the canopy of the branches, into the shadow of the tree. The sudden flare of its dark triumph shoot through her,

"Dean, no!" she cried.


	42. Chapter 42

Author's Note: Okay, this is a nice long bit, and completely cliffhanger free. It is going to have to tide you over because I will be away until Sunday. Hope you all enjoy!

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Dean knew he was in trouble before he heard Reggie shout.

_Eat me._

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

_Oh you sly sonofabitch, _he thought, looking at the tree, as his muscles twitched against the sudden binding force which held him immobile. His gaze was drawn to the alien fruit, something so familiar made so fantastic, so strange. He was frozen in the act of reaching for it, and he found that he couldn't look away. The unnaturally perfect, inky sphere was perversely appealing, like a deliciously corrupt kind of manna. Looking at the smooth, unblemished flesh, sensing the juicy promise beneath, he was suddenly ravenous. An ambrosial fragrance filled his nose, he could hear the sound, the satisfying crunch that would follow that first, titillating bite. He could practically taste the tart, sweet perfection of the firm, tangy flesh. He felt a sudden insatiable desire to consume, his senses were filled by sensuous promises of fulfillment, of pleasure. His fingers twitched, his hand reaching forward to claim the tempting prize of its own accord.

"Sam!" Reggie yelled it. His long legs carried him to her side with amazing speed.

"What's the ma..." he began, automatically looking around for Dean, the words dying in his throat as his eyes found his brother. Took in the stiff, unnatural posture, the outstretched hand.

"Dean" he roared, "Don't touch it!"

The sharp, satirical voice which lived in Dean's head watched the drama unfold with something bordering on amused disgust, as he fought against the malignant compulsion of the supernatural being which inhabited the tree. _Thanks for the heads up Sam, _it snarked, _Whatever would we do without Captain Obvious to deliver these blatant little gems of wisdom. If this were Snow White, he'd be Dopey. _

_Oh Shut up,_ suggested Dean, _I don't see you making yourself very useful. _

_Well, that would be rather difficult, wouldn't it, _replied the voice, _I'm just another facet of you after all, and if you can't be bothered to help yourself, then I'm certainly not going to make the effort, Grumpy!_

It was the calm, detached voice that always popped up when he found himself in these dire straights, the fact that it was also a raging pain in the ass, well, he supposed that was just his luck. However, the voice did provide one, very important function. It never failed to remind him, goadingly, of who, and what, he was. Its snippy observations had distracted him for a moment, freeing a small portion of his consciousness from the hold of the insistent desire that fogged his brain, if not the preternatural bonds which held him against his will. It was enough to allow him to register the sinister, sensual seduction, and begin to resist, and when Dean put his mind to it, he could be considerably pigheaded about this kind of thing.

_Taste me_, whispered the disembodied voices. Their tone threatened to weave a spell, spoke of delectable pleasures, and of satisfaction for the stabbing want that threatened to devour him.

_Eat me,_ the voices grew imperious. Dean dug in his heels.

"Sorry" he forced his lips to form around the words, "But I'm just not that kind of girl."

His denial, his resistance, seemed to baffle the entity for a moment. It paused in its sensory assault, and the sound of a thousand tiny voices humming in a confused conference made the air around him buzz. Then, the sound cut out, leaving in its wake a pregnant silence. Dean was forced to stand, uncomfortably contorted into a half crouch, waiting for the being to come to some kind of consensus.

_Oh well_, sighed the breathy voices, _This place is ours. Here, there is more than one way._

Reggie and Sam watched in fascinated horror, the fine tremors in Dean's body indicating to both that he was fighting an intense, covert battle for control of his own body.

"Can't you do something!?" demanded Sam, turning to Reggie.

"Like before, like with Hutchon. Can't you" he gestured a bit frantically, "I dunno, make it miss its mommy or something!"

Reggie's hair flew as she violently shook her head. Her senses ran over the tree. There were bits and pieces, lingering echoes, of something that had once been human, but whoever it had been was now too mingled with the tree. Both had been here a long time, together. The long marriage had fused the two essences, animal and vegetable, blended them until they became some new, hybridized being. What had once been human was fragmented and incomplete. As far as she could tell, it was as though, as the tree grew and the mutant fruit of its unholy union was produced, each was infused with a small share of the spirit's essence, like a tiny drop of venom, which poisoned the whole. The power of the being seemed to be limited to those unfortunate enough to actually enter its sphere of power, who came physically within the shadow of the tree. So the apples acted like tiny, traveling salesmen. Bringing the tree's deadly product to the masses, those outside its immediate influence. There was nothing tangible enough for her to grasp, no center, no emotional, human entity left to attack. Just as there was nothing blatantly supernatural to set off the EMF.

"I can't, I can't. It's not human anymore! Not really." She tried to explain to Sam.

_There is more than one way. _Dean had to admit, that as bad as his present circumstances were, he had a sinking feeling they were going to get worse. Sometimes he hated being right. The unnatural longing for the proverbial forbidden fruit of the tainted apples vanished as though it had never been. He felt the chilling brush of an ominous wind, and his captive body shuddered, as he perceived a subtle shifting, which vibrated through him on a cellular level. He opened his mouth to draw a breath and felt the icy hand of panic close around his heart.

There was no air.

It was simply gone. The deceitfully peaceful, shaded, haven of the tree's shadow was like a vacuum.

At first his mind denied what his body communicated. His lungs continued, for a moment, to struggle to expand, but there was no oxygen to stretch away the screaming tension, no air to fill his starving lungs. He fought to keep his head, to keep calm. The wild beating of his heart, the desire to flail and fight, would only use up what precious reserves of air he had left. His eyes struggled to find his brother, Reggie. He felt a streamer of relief flow through him when he managed to turn his eyes enough to bring them into view. They were safe, outside the entity's branch bordered domain. He tried to think but his mind was slow and sluggish, and he felt the sudden release of the invisible bonds which had held him. He knew the being was mocking him, his oxygen starved muscles and mind no longer had the strength to carry him away from the danger. He sank slowly to his knees, hands instinctively reaching up to grasp feebly at his throat, an attempt to ward of an attacker that could be neither seen nor touched.

The colours of the withered grass, the black apple, the blue sky, became sharp, and almost painfully vibrant, and then began slowly to dull, as his vision faded. He did not feel the impact as his body hit the ground, the narrowing tunnel of his vision was filled by distorted perfection of the ebony fruit. The voices hummed with excitement, triumph, and spite.

_Eat me._ The wicked apples mocked him.

_Bite me, _they suggested, jeeringly

_Oh_ thought Dean with contemptuous aplomb, as he was slowly dragged towards oblivion,

_That is so my line._

Reggie watched in horror as Dean began to crumple slowly to the ground, her hand clawed at Sam's shirt. She turned to him. His eyes were wide with panicked shock and fear. He lifted his shotgun but Reggie knocked it aside.

"It won't do any good", she told him, tossing the weapon to the ground.

"In there" she gestured to the shaded area,

"It's too powerful. Think Sam, think! What can we do!" her voice rose urgently, and her fingers tightened around the material she grasped, squeezing so hard sharp lances of pain spiked through her fingers and up her arms. Sam ordered his mind to work. He shuffled quickly through the possibilities available to them, he came up blank. The only options he could come up with would take too long, he looked at his brother, who was swaying on his knees. Dean had no time.

_Dean was going to die_.

Sam had only felt the rushing, crystal clarity of the power that slumbered within him once before. In a situation much like this, when his psychic senses told him that unless he acted, his brother, whom he loved more than anything, who had fought so long and so hard for him, would soon slip from his grasp. Desperation seized him, it was his only chance, Dean's only chance! Trying to remember what Reggie had told him about using her gift, Sam fell into himself.

Reggie felt it. Felt Sam reaching hesitantly for the power which lay dormant within him. She felt the little surge of triumph when he wound the first strands of it around his will.

_Yes!_ She thought, willing him to hurry. Releasing Sam, she dropped to the ground as Dean finally collapsed, trying to keep his eyes on hers. Trying to hold onto him. She could feel the slow ebbing of his life. It wasn't the same dark and brutal cacophony of pain and panic that her grandmother's death had been. It was almost worse, a slow, inevitable leeching away of life, she could feel the part of him that was Dean dwindling, flowing out of the prostrate body on the ground. His eyes slipped shut and Reggie felt a wicked, stabbing panic, as she lost sight of the clear green depths. The fear that seized her was monumental, consuming, what if she never saw those eyes again? She tired to still the wild beating of her heart. He was strong, and he was holding onto life with all the grim tenacity and stubborn conviction housed in his irrepressible spirit. But still, he was sliding away. _Hurry Sam_, her heart whispered the words. _Oh God please, Hurry!_

At first it seemed deceptively easy. Reggie had been right, the power was there, a gently seething wellspring inside him. He reached out for it, and griped the surging energy in his hands. But he found he could not make it obey him. It was like trying to wind water onto a spool. It slipped away, through his fingers, he couldn't control it. Dark thoughts began to creep in. It was evil, beyond him, to unleash it could be disastrous. Clearly he could not harness it. Reggie must have been wrong, the power was not a part of him, but a part of something else. Something evil, something despicable, and if he continued to push, to prod and grasp at it, who knew what might happen? He had failed again, failed. He would be responsible for his brother's death, as he had been for his mother's.

Reggie felt the waves of doubt, denial and guilt swamp Sam, drowning and muddying the clear presence of the power within him. She made a decision. It was far more than she would normally be willing to do. More than she would normally interfere, but if she didn't…..She looked at Dean, he lay pale and unmoving under the gently swaying branches, the fluttering whisper of his essence barely strong enough to register on her senses. They could not lose him. She could not.

Casting out with her gift, she grabbed onto the choking threads of doubt and negativity which were strangling the light within Sam. She tugged, hard and sharp, unraveling them. The power within him brightened again, but still, his scattered mind and fearful heart could not focus enough to allow him use the gift before him. He was trying far to hard. Without hesitating, Reggie ran out ribbons of her own emotions. Confidence, in this, her true talent, her gift, determination, focus, she wound and twisted them together until they formed a solid rope of positive energy. This she spun and flattened into a disk of sorts, and cast it before Sam, about him. She breathed a sigh of relief when he accepted, rather than rejected her help. He relaxed, and, using the emotional prism she had provided like a magnifying glass, focused and enabled his power.

Sam felt the soft whispering, the gentle flutter, of Reggie's power at the edges of his psychic senses. It was golden and warm, and familiar. He felt his fear and his self-denial melt away, and the well of his power surged. He tried again to grasp it, but found that no matter how hard he tried, how much he grabbed at it, how forcefully he tried to command it, it lay quiet and dormant. And then it was as though she was there, inside his head with him.

He felt himself open, there was no need for command, no need to grasp, or pull, or force. He could see now, the power was not some isolated, walled off entity that lived within him. It was him, it was everywhere. Where he had arms and legs, there were also chords of power, his eyes saw more than the physical world of colour and shape around him. When he opened them, he could see the entity. All the hair-fine, gossamer strands of the spirit that spread through and over the tree like a giant web, he saw Dean caught in their deadly grip. And Reggie was wrong, he could see what was too faint for even her gift to pick up. At the heart of the tree there was a center. It was a sentience so faint it barely made an impression on his heightened senses, but the heart of the spirit continued to live separately within the tree.

He felt the power flow out of him, felt it slide easily through the holes in the network of the being's power, and reach toward the heart. The sharp slice of pain shocked him. It was as though he had stuck his hand into a patch of briars, where each cruel thorn was filled with acid venom, that pumped eagerly into each newly ripped wound. But Sam did not let go. He gritted his teeth, and reached for his brother's entangled body, ripping at the suffocating coils though the invisible ropes bit into him, leaving burns and lacerations on mind and body. The entity released Dean, and concentrated on Sam.

Reggie felt it, the moment when the treespirit released its grip on Dean, felt life return to the shaded area beneath the green boughs. She was beside him in an instant. The heady mix of fear and desperation coursing through her veins gave her speed and strength.

_Too long. It's been too long._

Her heart refused to hear what her mind told her must be true. Reggie threw herself down on the stiff, cold grass by Dean's body. Her hands ran over him, searching for signs of life. His chest was still, he wasn't breathing. Her fingers found his throat, there was no pulse. She fought down the waves of terror and hopelessness, and reached out, looking for the signature blend of determination, arrogance, responsibility and dogged optimism, the strange, unique mix of light and dark that was Dean. She could not find him. Denial cut of despair before it could register. He was not gone! This was Dean. Sam's Dean, her Dean! He was there she was sure, if only she looked hard enough, she would find him. He would never quit, and neither would she.

Working quickly, Reggie tilted Dean's head back, clearing his airway, and lowering her head, she covered her mouth with his, filling his body with her warm breath, and then sat back, artificially pumping his lungs. As she went through the motions of CPR, trying to stimulate his physical body, Reggie gathered what was left of her gift. She sharply severed the connection between the power she fed to Sam and herself. Cutting loose the mass of energy was like losing an arm, but she did it almost without a thought. Sam needed it to keep fighting, and she needed him to keep fighting if she were going to save Dean. Taking what remained, she cast it out like a net, searching relentlessly for any spark, any iota, of Dean that might be left. Her mind and body screamed with the dual effort placed upon her weakened powers, but she pressed on stubbornly. And then, there it was.

She should have known that what would be left, what would linger the longest, was love. Dean, for all his tough exterior, was, like all lost children, ultimately driven by love. And it was the love that was the strongest, that clung to him, that endured, and even that was almost gone. Growling, low and primitive, Reggie caught the tiny, silvery strand of energy that was all that remained of Dean, and began to pull. _Come back, come back, come back. _She chanted it inside her head as she struggled to bring him back. At first it was painfully slow and onerous, it seemed as though eons passed in the space of those first few seconds, as Reggie, with agonizing slowness, fought for every inch of Dean's returning spirit. And then, it was as though a floodgate had opened, and he came racing back, pouring back into himself in a powerful, dizzying, rush.

Dean felt the aching impact as his consciousness crashed back into his body. Only a moment before he had been floating free, watching, almost enviously, as Reggie had pressed her lips to his unfeeling ones again and again. Something told him he should be going, that it was time to leave, that the body below was no longer him, but he had resisted. He had fluttered over his own, prone form, shut out of himself, but stubbornly refusing to go anywhere near the persistent glow that had appeared.

_Rule number one for out of body experiences, _he thought to himself, _Stay the hell away from the light!_

Looking into the painfully white depths, he had recognized the female face with soft brown hair and gentle blue eyes.

_Dean_, it had called him by name in a familiar voice. Dean had looked calmly into the face of the reaper,

_I'm still not ready_, he had told her firmly.

_Even you cannot continually cheat death Dean_, murmered.

He really hated it when she took that long-suffering, reasonable tone with him.

_We must accept when our time has come. _

He snorted, and a hot flare of rebellious anger shot through him.

_Bullshit. It wasn't my Dad's time. I notice that your omnipotent rules didn't so much apply there. _He shook his head sharply, _Spare me the destiny, 'your time has come', 'the fight will continue without you', spiel. It's all crap, _b_een there, done that, got the tee-shirt. Like I told you last time, thanks, but no thanks. This is my family and my fight. I'm not going anywhere. _

_ Dean….. _she tried again. He couldn't stop the grin that spread over his spectral face when he felt the welcome tug of a ghostly golden hand on his own, saw the way back open suddenly before him. He had spared the frustrated reaper a last glance,

_Maybe next time sweetheart_, he told her, his spiritual voice ripe with contempt, before diving headlong back into his body.

He hurt everywhere, the kind of visceral, bone-deep, all-over agony that made him clamour for the safe, dark, mindless release of the insensible void he had so recently shunned. For a second, he almost wondered if coming back had been worth it. His lungs were screaming for air.

_So breath stupid_, Dean's reawakened consciousness instructed archly. Right.

He opened his mouth, sucking in that first ragged mouthful of air was an ecstatic relief like he had never known. Instinct took over, and his body convulsed violently as it fought, with deep, gulping, shuddering breaths, to restore itself. At first there was nothing but that all consuming need, but eventually, the image of Reggie's frantic, worried face swam into view. He coughed, and resisted the hands that tugged on him. He was as weak as a new born kitten, it was all he could do just to lay there.

"Dean, Dean!" her voice sounded distant.

"You have to help me. We have to get up, get away from the tree. Sam can't hold on much longer. It's hurting him!" There were tears in her voice. Somewhere in Dean's head that annoying voice woke up.

_You know Dude_, it said contemptuously, as it took in his prone position, _If this really were the fairytale, Sam might be Dopey, but you'd be playing fucking **Snow White**!_

It was enough of an insult to his ego to get him moving. Rolling onto his stomach and then gaining his knees took a monumental act of will, but he managed, just barely. And then there was the slow, torturous process by which he half crawled, and Reggie half dragged him, out of the tree's shadow, but the tiny voice whispering _Sam, Sam is hurting_, drove him on. Both panting hard, Reggie and Dean collapsed, as the reached the safety of the sun drenched field.


	43. Chapter 43

Author's Note: Hi guys. Sorry, I know it had been ages since the last update. We wound up staying in NY longer than planned. Anyway, back on track now. I will try to post again tomorrow. Thanks for the reviews!

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Sam was bleeding. Not blood, but life, life energy. His very essence was leaking out of the deep gashes he had obtained during his titanic battle with the powerful supernatural entity that was the treespirit. It had all the malignant purpose of any vengeful ghost out for blood, and the power of nature itself, lent by the tree. It attacked him on every level. Psychic onslaughts left welts on his body and tore at his mind, threatening his very sanity. Cold, sharp phantom fingers shredded his consciousness, delving greedily between the threads of memory and feeling that made him who he was. The complicated tapestry of experience and emotion that was Sam. And the vicious assault was not just destructive, it was insidious.

Where it managed to open cracks in the fabric of Sam's identity, it slipped and wriggled and slithered in, driving the wedge deeper, separating him from himself, placing itself where he once had been. He knew that if Reggie didn't hurry, there would be no Sam left to come back to her and Dean. He spared a precious nugget of energy to search for them, and felt a surging wave of relief. They were clear, they were safe, he could let go, he could rest. The vicious spiritual hooks that the treespirit had sunk into him tore deep rents as he wrenched away. It was loathe to give up its new prize, but he was not yet so weak that it could keep him. It was not until he was free that Sam realized how very close he had come to losing himself. Staggering and falling, and finally crawling, Sam made his way over to where Reggie and Dean lay in a heap just outside the shadow of the tree. Groaning, he crumpled to the ground beside them, but still, he wore a smile. He had done it, he had saved Dean.

Reggie could not help but feel the white hot agony that lanced through Sam as he tore himself free from the malicious hold of the treespirit. She was amazed that in the face of such pain he could still feel joy. And he was joyful, he was incandescent, he had saved his brother. Had done for Dean what Dean had always done for him. Fought, fought and won. Reggie reached out her right hand and gripped his shoulder, trying, feebly, to siphon off some of the blinding anguish that slashed through the two men. Her other arm was wrapped around Dean's chest, supporting him as he sagged back against her, her cheek rested against the softness of his hair. Hurt. They were all hurting, but Reggie could grin through the pain. Pain was good, pain meant alive, you had to be alive to feel pain. For long moments the three sat in exhausted silence, connected, and breathed, in and out, in and out, as one.

None of them were exactly sure how much time passed, as they slumped together, simply existing. Reggie allowed herself to relish the sensation, to lose and renew herself in the living music made by the three heartbeats that pulsed gently against her senses. Gradually, other sounds began to creep in. At first there was only the strong, reassuring _thump thump_ of Dean's heart, she could feel the steady tattoo it beat against his chest where she held him, and then came the fluting song of the winter-brave birds. Their sweet intrusion was soon followed by more mundane and unwelcome noises. The distant buzz of traffic, the shrill, irritated voice of a rush-hour horn. Reality could only be ignored for so long.

And the reality was that while they were alive, it had taken everything they had to survive, and the treespirit was no worse off for the encounter. More than that, there was a growing, uncomfortable, awareness of actions taken in the heat of battle, and consequences that had to be faced. Reggie had changed something inside of Sam, possibly irrevocably, and she had literally had her hands in the fabric of Dean's soul. It would be difficult to say who exactly was more ill at ease with that thought. And then there was the guilt. Dean had seen the wicked red marks on Sam's palms, had seen the look of pain that twisted his brother's face. It was his fault. It had been stupid, a rookie mistake, to go for that apple, knowing that there was something not right about the damn tree. He was distracted, not thinking clearly, and while that was not exactly Reggie's fault, she was the cause. Even now, when he was so weak he could barely see, he was intensely, uncomfortably aware of her.

Of her warm, soft body, the gentle swell of her breasts where his head was pillowed, her warm breath washing over him, her arm wrapped around him. He was also aware of what she had done. She had saved him, she had reached beyond the physical world, into the shadowy realm between life and death to find him. Actions like that could have serious consequences. For example, Dean was quite sure he would carry a mark on his soul, where her essence had touched his, for the rest of his life and probably after. But it was the fact that he was almost glad, that he valued that spiritual branding, that he liked to think that some part of her would eternally be with him, that really freaked him out. That and the fact that, as he lay there, in the field with the cool wind blowing over him, in her arms, he realized that he would be quite content to stay exactly where he was, for the rest of his life.

It was that knowledge that made him say it. Made him break the fragile peace that ensconced them. He needed some distance, now. Wiggling his head suggestively against the soft cushion of her breasts, Dean looked up at Reggie with a weak but raffish smile,

"I should do the whole near death thing more often. As a nurse, you're already blowing poor Sammy right out of the water. He looks ridiculous in those little white outfits, but you…… " It was as far as he got, before his words had the desired effect.

"Mother Fuck!" he swore viciously, as Reggie jolted up, dropping him unceremoniously on his back, making his aching head and body screech with renewed agony.

"You jackass" she hissed, stalking off toward the impala.

"Smooth" said Sam weakly from where he lay beside Dean.

"Oh shut up" came the groaned suggestion.

As Reggie strode angrily away from Dean her mind began to buzz, almost painfully, with the sudden swelling of emotions and frantic, furious, fearful thoughts that cascaded through her. He had almost died. She had felt him slipping away. God, her hands began to shake. She had reached into the abyss just in time to haul his sorry ass back into the world of the living, and he was making jokes! Being glib! Now! Reaching the car, she gave the front tire a swift, hard kick, venting her anger and frustration, and then sank down against the fender. Laying her head in her trembling hands Reggie tried to block out the memory of what had just happened, what she had felt.

_Her Dean_.

Was that really how she thought of him? Could she have been that far gone and not even have know it? She tried to rationalize away the feeling of soul-killing fright that had gripped her when his eyelids had whispered shut over those green eyes. Tried to pretend that she hadn't just walked half-way into death to bring him back, because she couldn't imagine a world without him. _Of course you care about Dean_ she told herself. _It's not like you could have spent the last month with him, gone through what you have gone though, and not feel anything. Now that would be weird. I mean, you care about Sam too, right? You'd have done the same for him, if he'd been the one caught. _Of course she would have. Of course it was natural for her to have feelings for Sam and Dean. They were her friends, they had saved her, she had saved them. They shared the deep, dark secret of the yellow-eyed demon, and the pain, and desire for revenge he had brought to their families.

It was just that he was so, so, reckless wasn't exactly the right word. Dean didn't have a death wish, but he was often careless of himself. He put everyone else first. Save Sam, save Reggie, save the nameless strangers. Who saved Dean?

_Well, you did, s_he pointed out to herself. That was true, she had, she and Sam. And she'd have walked straight through hell to do it too. Reggie groaned silently to herself. The plan was not working. It had been just this morning that she had told herself she would ignore what was growing between her and Dean. That she had to ignore it. Now, less than six hours later, she was back to square one, and since this kind of intense, dangerous experience seemed to be something of a matter of course in the Winchesters' lives, it looked like she was going to be forced to confront those feelings on a regular basis. Her uncomfortably acute and alarmingly powerful feelings for Dean were once more front and centre in her mind, and really, they'd been there all day. She and Dean had been snipping at each other constantly since this morning.

His attitude irritated the hell out of her. All that crap about staying in the car, it made it very clear to her, that while the brothers would do their best to keep her safe, while they allowed her to tag along, essentially, this was still very much the Sam and Dean show. Reggie was merely a temporary guest. Their trust in her went only so far, even if she had saved their asses twice now. She was going to have to deal with both of those problems, and soon. Clearly, as far as dealing with the dangerous feeling Dean aroused in her, avoidance was a bust. What she needed to do was to bury them in familiarity. To breed contempt. She had to stop walking on eggshells around him, had to immerse herself, so to speak. To just treat him normally, as she would everyone else. If she stopped treating him like he was special, eventually, the allure would fade, wear off. It was the only way she could think of to regain control.

Standing up, Reggie scrubbed the remnants of tears from her face, and gave the fender of the impala an apologetic little pat.

"It's not your fault he's such a moron", she said under her breath.

Sam and Dean were making their way slowly towards her, Dean supporting the ragged looking Sam. Despite his brush with death, Dean's body was young and strong, and since he had received no actual wounds, he was recovering more quickly than Sam, who had sustained some fairly heavy damages during his tussle with the treespirit. When the brothers arrived at the car, Dean eased Sam gently into the passenger seat, carefully placing his brother's wounded hands in his lap.

"You okay there Sammy?" he asked softly. Sam managed to muster a feeble smile.

"Never been better. How bought you? Bet your reaper was royally pissed off, to lose you again." Dean grinned,

"She surely didn't look to pleased" he replied. Sam chuckled weakly. Reggie's head came up sharply, from where she had been bending over to get a look at Sam's chewed up hands. All her previous thoughts about contempt and familiarity, when right out of her head.

"Again?!" she demanded.

"What, you do this sort of thing often!?"

Dean looked at her calmly, "I wouldn't say often. This only makes twice."

"Twice" she parroted helplessly in disbelief.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?! You almost died! And apparently not for the first time, and that doesn't bother you! I mean, do have any idea how long you were out. You're lucky you aren't brain dead! But then again, maybe you are! You're certainly acting as though you lost a few million brain cells, and according to the evidence, you didn't have that many to spare!" Reggie's voice had a sharp edge and held a slight inkling of hysteria.

"Look" began Dean, his own voice heating, but Sam cut him off.

"Uh guys, can you do that later please" he was looking a little green. "I think I really need to lie down for a bit."

Immediately contrite, Reggie swept her hands gently over his clammy face, brushing back his damp hair.

"Of course honey. Sorry." She gave him a blinding smile,

"Our conquering hero definitely deserves some R&R." She turned to Dean and held out her hand. He looked at her like she was insane.

"What?"

"Keys."

He just stared at her.

"Oh come on! Half an hour ago, you where knocking on death's door! You don't think maybe I should drive?"

"Hell no!" he answered, walking around the car and getting into the front seat to emphasize his conviction.

Seething at his stubborn arrogance, Reggie stood there staring for a moment, and then slammed into the back of the impala.

"Whatever you say Indiana" she snarled under her breath.

"Will you cut out that Indiana crap!" Dean snapped from the front seat. His head was aching.

"Why no" she purred sweetly, her glittering eyes meeting his in the rearview mirror,

"Because then I'd have to come up with something else to express what an thoughtless, hot-headed, unmitigated ass you are, and I'm too much of a lady to use that kind of language."

For long seconds scorching green eyes dueled with gold. And then suddenly, Dean gave up. He gave up pretending, that what was sparking and snapping between them was anything other than a tangled emotional mess of unspoken care, fear, worry, and unease, that found its release in anger since they would allow it no other vent. Maybe he couldn't fight his feelings, but that didn't mean he had to act on them. Swiveling to look Reggie directly in the eyes, rather than glare at their reflection, he said in a voice which betrayed how truly tired and hurting he was,

"Truce?"

Reggie knew that he meant more than a simple ceasefire in their current verbal war. He meant a mutual acceptance of what they both knew was brewing between them, and a mutual agreement to stop wasting time and energy fighting over it. Instead, they would be allies. Rather than ignoring it, they would accept that it was there, and conquer it through a refusal to act, rather than a refusal to feel. Familiarity would breed contempt, it would have too.

Reggie nodded her mute agreement, and Dean started the car.

Reggie sat at the table in the small, grungy motel room and watched the Winchesters. They were asleep, sprawled on the beds in front of her. They didn't really look like brothers. Sam's dark hair was a tangled, knotted mess that framed his sharply angled face. To Reggie's fanciful turn of mind, he always looked a bit like an overgrown pixie, with that sharply pointed chin and those wickedly high cheekbones. The broad nose and pouting lips, the long almost slanted eyes framed by dark lashes that hid crystalline blue depths and masked the intelligent, measuring intellect that watched the outside world so carefully. His long, angular body, offset by the quite, boyish charm. And then there was Dean.

His short, dark blond hair stuck up in rumpled, disheveled spikes and the hard, muscled body screamed his vocation. It was the kind of muscle built in battle, rather than a gym. The combined promise of power, speed and agility in his hard limbs said clearly, _soldier, warrior. _But he wasn't hard everywhere. Her eyes cruised over his face. Dean didn't look like a fairy, but his face held the kind of beauty that would have made the fey creatures of legend jealous. His jaw was squarer than Sam's, heavier and blunter, the nose almost aquiline. His eyes, Reggie closed her own and pictured them. They were a unique shade of soft green shot though with gold, like the shadowed side of a seawave with the sunlight behind it. They were large and framed by lashes long enough to make any woman envious. And then there was the mouth. Reggie knew it would not do to dwell on the wide, mobile, curving temptation of it. Rather she let her gaze fall to his lightly dimpled chin, which bore a faint scar. The roguish mark was just enough to save him from perfection, and was an appropriet physical echo of his sly, brash charm. Only Dean could make arrogance endeering. Even his ears were pretty.

She shook her head, no, Sam and Dean didn't look like brothers, but you'd have had to have been blind to miss the tangible connection between the two men. It wasn't in their looks, it was in their actions. Even now, exhausted and battered, they had assumed identical positions in the healing thrall of sleep. Dean lay to her left, and Sam to her right. Both were more or less spread eagled, taking up all of the available space on the beds, their hands thrown over their heads, Sam's heavy with white bandages she had applied herself. She wished she could so easily bind up the throbbing spiritual and emotional wounds the battle had opened in their souls. She knew that Dean was smarting with guilt, and also with anger. Something to do with his father as well as Sam, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Sighing deeply, she stood and walked over to the first bed, smoothing a hand over Sam's hair, checking for any signs of the fever he'd had when they'd arrived. It seemed the body treated a spiritual invasion the same way it did a physical one, it tried to sweat it out.

Those first few hours had been brutally hectic. With Dean hovering and fussing like a worried mother hen, and refusing to lie down or rest, until they had managed to wrestle Sam's body temperature down to a non life-threatening digit with cold compresses and the like. In all honesty, she'd been surprised at how competent and gentle a nurse Dean had been for his baby brother, she shook her head as she pressed a kiss to Sam's thankfully cool forehead and moved to the next bed. She shouldn't have been, of course it would have been Dean who cared for Sam, and Sam for Dean, all these years, through all the fights, and all the wounds. Looking down at Dean where he lay on the bed, she couldn't stop herself from tracing her fingers gently down the line of his jaw, and then trailing them down his throat, letting them rest at the base, where she could feel the reassuring pulse of his life. He neither stirred nor woke. She knew it was both a testament to his exhaustion, and to the state of their relationship. He might not fully trust her, but at least his subconscious monitoring system had her catalogued under friend rather than enemy, the very fact that she didn't currently have his favourite hunting knife at her throat was hard proof of that.

Reggie walked back to the table and looked down at Sam's phone, she knew she was procrastinating.


	44. Chapter 44

Author's Note: Hey there everyone. As always, I want to say hi to some new reviewers who don't have accounts, and, does the happy dance, I'd like to say PFK is celebrating 10500 hits, and I am beside myself. Thanks so much to you all for your support.

Love ArtemiS

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The house was a lovely, turn of the century brick mansion which, like most of the homes in the Rochester suburb of Parks Ave., had been converted into several apartments, due to the proximity of the University and the steady cash flow provided by generations of student tenants. In the third floor apartment Camille Cassidy paced from the small kitchen into the equally small living room, the cheery floral pattern on the teacup in her hand mirroring the bright faces of the daisies which adorned her soft yellow robe. As she moved through the apartment she couldn't stop her eyes from darting quickly into the dark, silent room that should have been filled with the warm, reassuring presence of her best friend.

It had been many weeks, after Reggie had first left on her mysterious trip with the Winchesters, before Cami had been able to look into the room without expecting Reggie to look back. All the signs of her friend were still there. The rumpled gold and blue bedding, the hundreds of books which spilled out of the two large bookcases and were stacked into random, haphazard towers wherever there was space. Leaning on the doorframe Camille fought back tears, as her eyes cruised over the many pictures and knickknacks which crowded every available surface. Her own face smiled back at her from many of them. Others were filled with fond memories of family and old friends, and she knew that every dust covered trinket had its own unique story. Even the ugly, plastic yellow slicker which had been roughly folded and stuck into a spare space in the bookshelf. They had worn them to protect themselves from the gloomy, atmospheric drizzle which had dripped steadily from iron-grey clouds on the day she and Reggie had visited the Tower of London. They had treated themselves to a trip to England as a graduation present, after completing their BA's.

It looked like every room Reggie had ever inhabited, from her bedroom in her parents house, to the five cramped residence rooms she'd managed to make feel like home during their undergraduate years when they had leapfrogged from one ugly, barren room to another with the beginning of each new term. All that was missing was the heart. Because no matter how cozily cluttered and cheerfully lived in the space might appear, without Reggie, the whole apartment just felt wrong. Camille wandered over to the couch and sat down by the phone. The stars peeked at her from behind the diaphanous curtains of the living room window, it was almost midnight, and there had been no call. Cami was worried, very worried, and not just about Reggie.

Sam. His face flashed through her mind. The thick shaggy hair, and the serious face, the blue eyes that could twinkle with an unexpected hint of humour or mischievous charm. His voice, which had become so familiar, the low, often pained tones, that had whispered over a bad cell connection and wound unexpectedly around her heart. She didn't know a damn thing about him. Not really, she knew, though neither he nor Reggie ever mentioned it, that they were both in some kind of danger, and that whatever they were doing, it wore heavily on both her friend and the mysterious stranger she had come to care about so much. There was such gentleness in Sam, such a deep, tormenting sorrow, and strength. The intense inner strength Cami sensed in Sam called out to her, as much as the battle she felt raging within him. It was crazy and she knew it, that she could care so much about a man she had met for a few moments more than a month ago, about a man who told her nothing about himself.

She should have cared, she should have been scared off, by the cloak of darkness and danger that shrouded him, but she wasn't. She didn't care about any of the things that logically, should have had her calling the police and citing Sam and Dean Winchester as a pair of dangerous madmen who had disappeared with her best friend. Instead, she had spent the last five weeks covering for them. Fielding calls from Reggie's relatives and friends, and passing on messages so Reggie could successfully maintain the illusion that she was working diligently away on her PhD at the University of Rochester, rather than running around the country for undisclosed reasons with a couple of strange men who demeanors practically screamed armed and dangerous. When the phone finally rang, Cami pounced on it with lightening speed.

"Reggie! Sam! Are you all right? What's going on?"

Reggie ran a tired hand over her face as the frantic worry in Camillie's voice was transmitted to her over the phone line.

"Hi Cami, nothing is wrong, we're fine."

"Liar." The accusation was soft.

This was why Reggie had been so reluctant to call. She'd known full well that she wouldn't be able to keep the strain and exhaustion from her voice, known that Cami would sense the underlying tension and worry, and she was too tired to lie.

"Cami"

"No" her friend interrupted her.

"Don't lie. I know that for whatever reason, you think you can't tell me. Just, just promise me that you're all right, that you aren't hurt. That Sam isn't hurt." Reggie looked at Sam's still form,

"He's going to be okay Cami" she said. "We……ran into some unexpected trouble, but he's going to be okay."

"Oh God" Cami's voice vibrated with her heartfelt fear.

"Cami" Reggie began again, but never finished her thought, as she spun, surprised, toward the sound of stirring behind her. Sam's dark blue eyes were open and he was lying on his side facing her. He didn't speak, merely held out his hand in a silent request. Reggie passed over the phone without a word. He struggled to grip it in his bandaged hand, a smile of content spreading over his face when he finally managed to rest it against his ear.

"Cami" his voice was think with pain and sleep.

"Sam" her voice smoothed over his senses like a healing balm.

"What happened?" He sighed,

"You know I can't tell you."

The exhaustion and regret she heard in his voice stopped her from protesting.

"What can I do Sam?" she whispered.

"Talk to me." He murmured,

"Take me away for a little while Cami."

More than a thousand miles away, Cami nodded violently at the phone. She was desperate to alleviate some of the suffering she heard in Sam's voice. Trying to keep her voice calm and soothing, she began to babble aimlessly about anything and everything that came to her head. She told him about her history of mathematics class, about Archimedes and Fermat and non-binary based number systems. She told him about the leaky plumbing in the apartment and her crazy, fire-breathing landlady who wouldn't get it fixed. About the gorgeous stray cat, a fluffy orange long-hair that had begun hanging around, she was calling him Cheddar. She told him about meeting Janet and Milo in the city for lunch and about her younger sister Marie, who had switched programs at NYU for the third time in two years, "I told her she wasn't going to like psychology", and about how she had won the campus-wide Bridge tournament.

Reggie watched in amazement as a look of blissful calm came over Sam's face. She tired to ignore the little stab of envy she felt. It was so easy for Cami, even with thousands of miles between her and Sam, she had managed to find the connection. Reggie was so afraid of the love Cami so easily embraced, she could barely admit that there was a connection between her and Dean, let alone throw caution to the winds and pursue it, and he was sitting, well, laying, right in front of her. Reggie waited silently until, somewhere in the middle of a heated tirade about how Elizabeth Bennet was not inferior to Emma Woodhouse, Sam slipped peacefully back into sleep.

Reggie carefully removed the phone from his hand and said goodbye to Cami, promising resolutely that she would call again tomorrow. Hanging up the phone, Reggie contemplated her options. She was now so tired she could barely stand upright. Clearly, Dean was sleeping so deeply as to be hovering near unconsciousness, having not so much as stirred during neither her nor Sam's conversation with Cami. She glared at him. It wasn't fair, that she should be the one afraid to go to sleep, because she worried she would once again have to relive that awful moment when his eyes had closed and she had been sure he was going to die. Sighing, Reggie went to the ever-present kaki duffle bag and felt around until she found the salt and the chalk. Carefully, she outlined both doors and all the window sills. Then, she traced her old friend, the Sign of Tanit, onto the centre of the door and above and below the windows, hanging Cat's Eye shells from the door handles and window latches just in case. That done, she accepted that the room was as safe as it was going to get, and walked over to stand indecisively beside the bed where Dean slept.

He sprawled contentedly over the mattress, his big body leaving basically no room for her. Muttering under her breath, Reggie leaned over and gave him a forceful shove. She had no intention of clinging to three inches of mattress by her fingernails for the entire night. She barely managed to muffle her scream, when she was suddenly yanked off her feet. For a moment she was sure Dean had awakened, and let her body go slack, fully expecting to feel the cold touch of steel against her throat at any second. But that was not what happened.

She blinked in shock when she was gently and firmly lifted and lain on her back on the bed, Dean's big body looming over her. It wasn't until he settled beside her that she realized he was still asleep. His motions where languid, almost routine, as he pulled her toward him. Reggie was too shocked to protest, and a strangled little squeak was all that escaped her as his big hands smoothed familiarly over her body, fitting her against him. One hand swept easily down the length of her leg, forcing it to come up and hook over his hip, the other arm encircled her shoulders, snuggling her head against the hard cushion of his chest. Caught completely unawares, a ragged little moan escaped her, when his warm lips pressed briefly against her jaw and her neck, before he stilled, Reggie now wrapped intimately in his arms.

Reggie lay motionless in Dean's arms, afraid to move as her mind whirled wildly trying to figure out what to do, how to react. She really should struggle, make some attempt to get away. But she was so tired, and it felt so good to have Dean hold her. To be able to hear his heart-beat in her ear, and the warmth from his body creeping into hers. It reassured her that he was here, that he was safe and alive. The events of the day had completely drained every reserve of energy. Her mind and body were exhausted, and even her gift was depleted, and before she could make a decision, Reggie had fallen asleep.

When Dean awoke before dawn the next morning, the first thing to register on his muzzy senses, was the warm supple weight of Reggie's body, which was sprawled over his chest, her breath feathering against his throat. Her presence said one thing to him, _It's all okay._ He was alive, Sam was alive, Reggie was safe. But it didn't last. Lying in the bed, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering down the dark corridor in his memory, towards the heavy door behind which he locked away the tearing grief and debilitating guilt of his father's death. Bound the raging animal of pain and fury in the chains of his will.

His encounter with the reaper had brought it all rushing back. The helplessness, the loss, the pain of knowing another had died so you could live, the anger at the unfairness of it all, at yourself, for not having the guts to face up to the truth and accept your fate. He had been so weak, so afraid of dying, so sure that something horrible would happen to his family if _he_ weren't there to stop it, that he couldn't let go, and something horrible had happened. It was his fault. He felt the cold, hard presence of the guilt inside him, and it was nothing compared to the weltering pain. Whatever fires of hell his father suffered, they burned equally hot around Dean's heart. Milton had said that hell burned with flames that were darkness made visible, and in Dean, those flames were made flesh. He hid it so well, no one could know the about the pain, the certainty that he was doomed to be alone. That he deserved to be alone. It was part of his punishment, and he embraced it.

Dean was snapped out of his dark thoughts by Reggie's little murmur and her agitated twitching, as though she sensed the raw burn of his unbridled hatred and fury, his searing loneliness.

"Easy honey" he soothed her in a low voice, stroking his hand over her hair. Loathe to disturb her, but unable to remain in the mocking warmth of the shared bed any longer, he began to ease gently from her grasp. To his surprise, her arms tightened stubbornly around him. He imagined for a moment what would happen if she awoke at this moment, with him half-way out of the bed, shackled to her, face to face, as she clung stubbornly to his arms.

She'd probably scream bloody blue murder that's what. Whatever her attraction to him, it was clearly unwelcome, and she was doing everything she could to resist it. No problem, he could definitely help her out with that. Firmly unhooking her hands from his arm and neck, he settled her back against the mattress. She made a sleepy sound of protest, but didn't awaken. Dean walked around the bed quickly to check on Sam, letting out a relieved sigh when he found his brother's forehead cool and dry. Walking to the door, he stopped short when he reached it, noting the protective symbols, the salt and the precautionary cat's eye shell. His eyes darted back to where Reggie lay in their bed, curled up into a small, lonely looking ball. _Protecting us were you, little hunter, h_e thought quietly. For a moment, it was all he could do not to return to the bed, unwind her from the cold, defensive posture she had assumed, and hold her until they both felt warm again. But he couldn't. Instead, Dean walked out into the cold morning air, alone.


	45. Chapter 45

Author's Note: Hey guys, just another denial-filled day in the lives of Reggie and Dean. Add a little detective work and a slightly cranky Sam...Enjoy.

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Reggie swam up through layers of darkness toward a distant light. Her eyes blinked against the glare of the sun. She lay still for a moment, trying to remember where she was and why she was so tired. It came back in bits and pieces. A fantastic story, that seemed like it should belong between the pages of a book, or on a television screen, she watched it unfold in her mind as though it had happened to someone else. There had been the tree, Dean, trapped by the malignant spirit. Reggie swallowed hard, Dean almost dying. Helping Sam to harness his powers. Catching the last lingering threads of Dean's soul and hauling him back to the realm of the living. Bringing them home, struggling to take care of Sam, talking to Cami, going to bed. She stopped, the last part was a bit hazy.

She remembered Dean grabbing her…..Reggie's breath caught painfully in her chest. They were sensations really, more than distinct memories. She remembered being held, feeling warm and safe. The realization that she had spent the night sleeping in Dean's arms smacked across her consciousness. _Oh my God!_ Had he still been holding her when he woke up? What must he have thought? That she was sneaking around worming her way into his arms in the night? _Oh God! _She thought again. And then a second wave, this time of paralyzing loneliness, hit her, and her breath backed up painfully in her lungs.

For those few hours she had felt as she never had before. Safe, warm, loved. The loss of that feeling, even if it had been brief and barely remembered, left her feeling unbearably bereft and hollow. Being alone was bad, but it was a hundred times worse, when you could compare it with being together. Reggie pressed a hand to her heart, in a feeble attempt to ease the tearing ache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there. _This is exactly why you have to get over this whole Dean thing. Nothing has happened between the two of you, and you are already hurting. Imagine what would happen, if you got in any deeper and he left you. When he leaves you._ She knew Dean too well to think that there would be any other outcome. Sam's thrashing in the next bed reminded her that dealing with her feelings for Dean meant going on with life as though everything were normal. Jutting out her chin, Reggie climbed resolutely out of the bed, settling beside Sam to check his temperature and his bandages.

When Dean returned to the motel a few hours later, Reggie didn't ask where he had been and Dean didn't volunteer the information. Their interactions were calm and business-like.

"How's Sammy?"

"Better. I think he'll more or less be himself again by the end of the day. Except for the hands. I don't know how long those will take to heal. They seem to be coming along pretty well so far. I don't know, maybe because what caused them wasn't a physical force, they'll heal faster?"

Dean nodded, "Could be. That sometimes happens. Let's hope we get that lucky." Reggie nodded her head.

"Yeah, let's hope so."

The silence was awkward, but not fraught with the same tension it had been the previous day. Neither felt they had to scramble to fill the quiet air, to make an attempt to cover or ignore the heightened awareness between them with a sharp remark or indifferent comment. Rather they simply stood there, waiting for the moment to pass, as they had accepted all such moments must. When Reggie could breath again, she looked up at Dean and asked,

"What do we do now?"

He gave a faint smile, "Well, we've got a job to finish, and I owe that sneaky arboreal sonofabitch one."

"Oh" Reggie looked taken aback, "You mean you want to go after the treespirit again. So soon?" she couldn't quite keep the quaver of fear out of her voice, in her mind she could still see his stiff, unmoving body. Dean gave her a reassuring grin.

"Don't worry, nothing ever gets the drop on me twice."

"Okay" Reggie didn't sound convinced, but she raised her head and repeated,

"What do we do?"

"You don't do anything" he answered. She scowled but he continued.

"If this is a spirit, it should just be a regular old salt and burn. But to do that we have to figure out who it was. That you can help with. I spent the morning at the library, trying to see if I could come up with anything about the orchard or the Smithwicks, but no dice. The orchard has only been there for the last forty years of so, before that, it was just woods. I came up empty. I was kind of hoping to talk to Sam, see if he maybe got anything useful while he was doing his Vulcan mind-meld thing with Mr. Black, Deadly and Delicious. You know, a place, a face, a cause of death, something to help us with an ID."

"Oh, well, I don't know if he's awake, and he really should rest…" Reggie began, only to be cut off by and exaggerated groan from the bed behind her.

"Really," said Sam in a long-suffering voice, "I told you. I feel fine." He looked at his brother and waved his bandaged hands in agitation,

"The only reason I'm still in this bed is because Nurse Rachett over here" he made a put upon face, "Won't let me out."

Reggie gave him a hard look, "You're hands are torn to shreds and you're still very weak Sam" she said firmly. "You can't lie to me, remember?"

He pouted and turned back to his brother.

"I got something better than a face. I got a name."

Reggie and Dean listened carefully while Sam explained how the treespirit had invaded his mind, trying to take over, by implanting some of its own identity in his head. While he had managed to keep the spirit from taking up any permanent residence, he also remembered some of what the sprit had tried to impart.

"His name was Ronnie Becker. And I think he was young, like early teens, maybe not even."

Reggie looked surprised,

"I didn't know children could become vengeful spirits." Dean gave her a dark look,

"Because children are so helpless, powerless to determine their own lives, they often have the most just cause for anger and seeking vengeance."

"Oh" she said softly. "That's so sad."

"Yeah" he answered, "It is. But Ronnie isn't a little boy anymore. Now he's just a pissed of ghost who can't really remember anything except what hurt him. And whatever pain he's feeling, he wants others to feel it too, and it looks like he doesn't much care who he's punishing because so far, I haven't been able to find any connection between the victims. We've got to stop him before he hurts someone else."

He looked at Reggie, "You up for a research trip?" She nodded and headed to the closet to get her coat.

"I wanna come too." said Sam, looking to Dean for support, and finding none.

"Oh gimme a break dude" said Dean, looking down at his brother's heavily bandaged hands,

"You're like the freakin' Michelin Man with those things. What're ya gonna do? Use your tongue to turn pages?"

"I could still help" said Sam stubbornly.

Dean stood up and gave the younger man a pat on the shoulder,

"Just relax Sammy, enjoy your time off" he looked into his brother's eyes,

"You earned it." Dean's voice said what his words did not.

Sam tried to hide his smile,

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome. You can thank me for saving your ass by bringing me home some food, I'm starved."

"Will do" promised Dean, and he and Reggie headed out the door.

Dean wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. He'd always thought Sam was the epitome of a master paper chaser. Reggie put his brother to shame. The woman was a machine. They'd walked in the front door of the small local library and she had insisted on stopping by the front desk. It had only taken her about five minutes of chatting with the librarian to figure out the idiosyncrasies of the small institution. Twenty minutes later the corner table they had chosen was groaning under the weight of the large, dusty tomes she'd had him carry from the back room. The place was as silent and empty as a tomb. When he said as much, she looked up from where she was busily sorting books into three separate stacks, making the dull, muted thud of leather on wood echo through the deserted rooms, and said glibly,

"You should know" surprising a laugh out of him. Swiping her hand through the thick layer of dust on the cover of one of the volumes, bound in dark green leather, she sneezed and shook her head.

"These are all of the birth and death records available for this county dating back as far as 1756. Each pile is a different century, the B's are on the top. Let's get started."

"What?" she'd demanded, when she caught him shaking his head at her.

"I'm a historian, remember. Libraries are, or were, my life. I guess some things really haven't changed."

There was an ironic kind of chagrin in her voice. Dean decided it was better not to dwell on the life she had been forced to leave behind. Instead, he sat down at the table, pulled off his jacket, and they got down to business. They worked surprisingly well together. At least it was surprising to Reggie. The silence that fell between them while they flipped pages and scanned endless dates and names was both companionable, and for the most part, comfortable. It was strange, when Dean shifted and muttered obscure, unspecific requests, like,

"Pass me the thing"

she always seemed to know which _thing_ he meant. Still, time crawled by slowly as they slogged their way through hundreds of records. Reggie settled deeply into her chair, getting comfortable, this kind of lengthy leg work was a history MA's life. She logged more man hours doing this kind of stuff than she cared to remember.

Nearly three hours later, Dean's neck was killing him and he had a crick in his back from sitting hunched over in the hard wooden chairs. So far they'd come up with nothing. No Beckers and no Ronnies or Ronalds. He looked up at Reggie. She was sitting cross legged, swallowed up by large wooden chair, the last of the huge green books open in her lap, her eyes darting swiftly down the page. Sunlight filled with dancing dust motes struck golden fire from her tawny hair and caressed the creamy skin of her face. She looked so young. She was young, a year younger than Sam, and she barely looked her twenty-two years. The honey and bronze curls and the smooth, unpainted face, she could easily have passed for eighteen. It made him forget that she was a scholar with three degrees under her belt, and that she'd been in the process of earning a fourth, her freaking PhD for God's sake, when he'd stormed into her hotel room in California and told her the holiday was over.

Of course, that impression of youth only lasted until she opened her mouth or looked into your eyes. Reggie's golden eyes held a paradoxical combination of knowledge and innocence that made him fiercely protective, and tempted him unbearably. The strength there was the kind that could only be built in adversity, but the wisdom and courage, those were uniquely her own. He'd have bet anything that if he'd met her when she was five years old, the only thing different about those eyes would have been the absence of the shadow of pain that now haunted them.

Reggie stretched her neck and tried not to be irritated with herself. This would have taken a lot less time, if she could have resisted the temptation to continually glance at Dean from beneath her lashes. He looked so goddamn cute with his brow all furrowed in concentration. In fact, she was so distracted that she almost missed it.

"Hey", she cried, jolting up and almost dropping the enormous book.

"What?" said Dean, scooting around the table so he could see the page where her finger was pointing. It read, Morgan Becker, born 1769, and Ronald Becker, born 1795.

"Now we're talking" he said, yanking over the death records. However, their new found enthusiasm faded quickly. Reggie shrugged her shoulders and looked over the top of her book at Dean.

"According to this, Ronald Becker was born here, but he never died. That doesn't make any sense. He and Morgan are the only Beckers born in these parts for the last two-hundred and fifty years."

Dean nodded absently, he was looking at Morgan's death certificate,

"Morgan died awfully young, about six years after Ronnie was born."

"Well," Reggie chewed on her lower lip while she thought,. Dean tried not to think about how much he'd like to be the one nibbling on the soft pink flesh. He was so engrossed by her mouth that he didn't hear the first part of her next sentence.

"……..certificates, maybe we can trace him through his mother."

"Huh" he looked up at her. She made an exasperated face,

"Focus please. I said, we should check the marriage records, it doesn't list Ronnie's mother's name here, but I bet we can find out who Morgan's wife was."

"Good idea" he said, fixing his eyes firmly on the floor.

Now that they had a time period and a specific name to work with, it didn't take them long to find what they were looking for.

"Hildegard Stoltz married Morgan Becker in 1789. Let's see what we can dig up on her."

"Hilde-what?" he said, "Who does that to their kid?" Reggie shrugged,

"It probably wasn't so unusual where the Stoltz's came from. Hildegard von Bingen was a really famous mystic nun from twelfth century Germany. Maybe the Stoltz's were immigrants from that area." Dean wasn't really listening, he was no longer surprised by the breadth of Reggie's knowledge. He slammed the green book shut with irritation.

"Give me a break, first the son never dies, and then there's no record of the mother's death. What the hell kind of spirit are we dealing with here. I mean, there must be some connection. Maybe the treespirit is so strong because there's more than one ghost there. Maybe Hidlewhatsis and Ronnie were murdered and it was somehow covered up, and that's why there are no death records" he went on mumbling to himself, trying to work through the possibilities.

Reggie beetled her brow. The historian in her said there was a simpler, less supernatural explanation.

"Hildegard" she murmured to herself, it was an unusual name for the Americas, surely there couldn't have been more than one in this area in the nineteenth century. At least she hoped not. Dragging the book Dean had shut across the table, she did a quick mental calculation. In the eighteen hundreds women lived to be anywhere from forty-five to sixty-five on average, that meant Hildegard would most likely have died between 1819 and 1839. She flipped quickly through the dry pages. And there it was. Died, Hildegard Twilling, 1828.

"Dean, Dean!" She tugged on the sleeve of his shirt,

"Where'd you put that book with the marriage records?" He stood to retrieve it from where he'd stuck it on top of a nearby card catalogue, there wasn't much room on the table. He plunked it down unceremoniously ,

"Think you got something?" he asked.

"We'll see" said Reggie as she opened the book.

"Aha!" she stabbed the page triumphantly with her index finger.

"What?" he asked, leaning over her shoulder. Reggie's mind went suddenly blank. She could smell him, sun and leather and man. She could feel him, his big body radiated heat. It took her a moment to unstick her tongue for the roof of her mouth, and it was clumsy in its attempt to form words. "Uuummmm…" she fought to clear her senses. His nearness was like a subtly flashing lure, inventing her mind to descend into a hot, dark spiral of pure sensation. She shook herself.

" I mean, it says here that about three years after Morgan's death, Hildegard remarried, a man named Jack Twilling."

"And you think that Ronnie will be listed as Ronnie Twilling instead of Ronnie Becker" he said, leaning on the table next to her. Reggie nodded mutely. Dean grabbed the death records.

"Bingo!" he said, giving the air a triumphant little punch.

"Here we go, Ronald Twilling, died….huh, Sam was right, Ronnie died in 1807, he was twelve." He gave her a heart-stopping smile,

"Nice job Sherlock."

"It makes sense" Reggie said softly, trying not to swallow her tongue

"That his spirit would still have thought of itself as Ronnie Becker, rather than use the name of its stepfather. It was elementary, my dear Watson."

"Hey" he looked mildly affronted,

"Are you comparing me to a pudgy British sidekick?" Reggie gave a little snort as her eyes ran quickly over his toned frame, there wasn't a spare ounce of flesh on him anywhere.

"Hardly" she muttered.

"But the only other super-sleuth I can come up with at the moment is Jessica Fletcher, and I think you're even less Angela Landsbury….", she trailed off at his blank look.

"Lost ya huh. Sorry, sometimes I get a bit, obscure with the humour and I" she waved her hand in a nose-diving motion.

"Crash and burn" he suggested, holding out a hand to help her climb out from behind the stacks of books which had accumulated around her chair.

"Hey, easy does it smart ass" she retorted, accepting his help.

_Mistake_. _Big mistake_, Dean thought to himself, as the banked fire within him roared back to life at the innocent touch. When Reggie had clamoured over the books she was standing very near him, her body almost brushing his, her small hand still caught in his large one. Time stopped and they stared at one another in the quiet, deserted library. Dean's mind was filled with fanciful images. Like grabbing Reggie, sweeping the books from the table behind them, and fulfilling his every dark fantasy in the silent room, in the warm golden sunlight, amid the heaps of leather-bound tomes. His rampant thoughts stole his breath and hardened his body in hot, heavy rush of desire.

Reggie gulped as she looked into Dean's eyes. Saw the flames flash to life there, felt the answering leap of heat in her own belly. _Oh no._ She reminded herself, _The plan, stick to the plan_. Hastily she stepped back, yanking her hand free and putting some much needed space between them. It seemed to break the spell.

Dean fidgeted with agitation, running a hand through his hair in the now familiar gesture of unease and steered the conversation back around to a safer subject.

"Now we should probably check the local papers from these dates, if they've got 'em. See if we can't find something about poor old Ronnie's death." He checked his watch,

"But we've been here nearly four hours, and I promised Sam some dinner." _And we're all alone here and I don't know if I can take the temptation_. And that was a first for him. The unsaid words hung in the air between them.

"Maybe we should go" he began.

"Where there are more people?" Reggie suggested softly, standing and gathering up her coat.

"Exactly" he muttered.

"Right" she said, leading the way to the door,

"Just promise me one thing okay? No MacDonald's."


	46. Chapter 46

Author's Note: Hey guys. So, we're still in kinda angsty territory, but it's time for a little brotherly angst, instead of romantic angst. Enjoy.

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Sam sat with his back against the headboard, dwarfing the small motel bed with his large frame. His elbows rested on his knees and his bandaged hands hung limply. He grinned cheekily at Reggie as she fed him another bite of hamburger. She rolled her eyes at him.

"You're enjoying this way to much" she told him archly.

"Hey" he said, looking innocent,

"You're the one who keeps saying I have to rest and that I can't use my hands."

"Hmmmmm" she gave a disapproving hum. He laughed.

"Where's Dean gone anyway?" he asked, looking around the room.

"He bolted the second you guys got back."

"Ummmm. He went back to the library" she replied nonchalantly, ducking her head and concentrating on her own meal, so Sam wouldn't see what she was afraid might show in her eyes when she remembered the they easy, almost sleepy, afternoon she'd spent in the sun-drenched back room with Dean. The strange mix of comfortable camaraderie sharply punctuated by a string of unexpected punches of desire.

"Again?" Sam's voice was coloured with surprise.

"Jeeze, I've never seen him log so many hours, especially solo, and with so little fuss. Dean's not really the type to suffer in silence."

"Hmmmm" Sam's words inadvertently brought echoes of Dean's buried pain to strum along her nerves. The pain he couldn't quite stifle, and she couldn't quite block out, no matter how hard she tried.

"You'd be surprised" she mumbled. Sam's sharp look said that actually, he wouldn't be, but he hadn't expected her to know that on the inside, Dean's heart was hunted by grief and pain he couldn't escape, like a wounded, wild animal.

"You're…..not, not fiddling in his head, are you?" he asked quietly. Reggie heard the suspicion, the protectiveness. Dean didn't want her inside his head, and Sam knew it. It made her smile, the Winchesters always watched each others backs, even with her.

"No Sam" she shook her head, "I only get what I can't block out."

She saw Sam hesitate, knew that he wanted to ask, wanted to know. The temptation to use her, to delve a little more deeply into the dark core that Dean kept so well concealed, to unravel the mystery that was his brother, was strong.

Dean wasn't like Sam, he didn't talk, he didn't share. Sam knew him better than most, but he knew that even he, saw mostly what Dean wanted him to see. It was just another way in which Dean tried to protect him. He had some inkling of the darkness that stalked his brother, of the guilt and the anger, but no real understanding. And he wanted to know, wanted to help. But Dean was far to skilled at burying what he really felt behind a cocksure façade and a quick tongue. Dean had always understood Sam better than Sam understood Dean. Maybe it was because, on the one hand, Dean presented such a simplistic, almost shallow, face to the world. And in some ways he was very much a "what you see is what you get" kind of guy. A sharp tongued, devil-may-care cowboy, perusing his own hidden agenda and disappearing into the sunset. No home, no binding ties. Just a job to do, and that was the way he liked it. And on the other hand, he was monstrously complex, thousands of layers of lies and half-truths, partially healed wounds and carefully covered hurts, piled one on top of another, until Sam wasn't even sure Dean knew exactly what was true and what wasn't.

Maybe it was because Dean had spent a lot more time trying to sort Sam out, in his unending quest to bring a little peace and solidarity to their increasingly fractured home during Sam's teenage years. Years when Sam had been engrossed in his own issues with his father, eaten by a burgeoning rebellion and resentment. Years when, for Sam, Dean had existed in some ulterior space. His rock, his hero. Dean had been invincible, unbreakable, always available to his little brother, and yet, like all heroes, necessarily enigmatic, unknowable. Those years which had ended in anger, abandonment, betrayal. Sam would never forget the look on Dean's face, when he had dropped him off at the bus station. It had been blank, cold, dead. The first time maybe, that he had realized that Dean could bleed. Something had died inside him too, that day, when the brother's had parted ways. Something that had come back to life when he'd been returned to the fold in the face of tragedy and death. On some level he had come to accept it.

The Winchester brothers were meant to walk the world side by side. There was a shadow of Dean in the cocky grin that kicked up the corners of his mouth. And God help anyone, or anything, that got in their way.

"Hey" Reggie gave him a nudge,

"Earth to Sam. Where'd you go?" She asked, when his eyes focused on her again.

'Just a little trip down memory lane" he murmured. She raised her eyebrows,

"Do my ears deceive me, or do the dulcet tones of your voice actually suggest that some of those memories might be," she paused dramatically, "Happy?"

Sam laughed,

"You sound like Dean" he said.

"Bite your tongue" she responded, aghast.

"No" he shook his head, "I'm serious. I don't know how you do it. You're like him that way. Not all of it is an act." She looked at him curiously,

"And what exactly, do you think this _act_ is?"

"You know" he swiped a bandaged hand over his hair.

"The whole, pull up your socks, it really doesn't bother me, life goes on and it really isn't all that bad routine. On some level, you actually believe that, you live it. I don't know how you do it. How you never seem to forget, that there is still good in the world."

She shrugged, "I guess I've learned that it helps to handle the pain. You can't always change it, or stop it, so you deal. You don't dwell, you keep on living. Healing isn't for the faint of heart Sam" she told him quietly.

"Usually, all the wounds have to be opened, exposed, and purged, before they can heal. In the long run, it's easier to just let them scab over. And despite what you might think, we've got more scabs than scars, Dean and I."

Sam had to admit he was surprised by her words. She was being more candid than he had expected. Reggie was more than willing to talk about her family, her friends, but never really herself. Sam shook his head again, what he knew about Reggie was actually very little. He knew a lot about the people whom she used to define herself, the people to whom she devoted herself, and that was an important part of her, a big part of who she was. But where exactly Reggie fit into the mix, how she felt, and how she'd come to be where she was, somehow, that never seemed to come up. Sam knew better than to push her now.

Instead he flopped back against his pillows, and let a bit of a whine creep into his voice.

"How much longer are you gonna keep me locked up in here anyway?" he demanded.

"I'm telling you, my hands feel fine" he said, waving the cotton-covered limbs in agitation. Reggie smiled and batted him on the knee.

"Quite moaning" she said.

"I'll have a look when we change the bandages tonight, and if they're okay…"

"You'll clear me for active duty?" said Sam hopefully.

"We'll see" repeated Reggie firmly, adding quietly under her breath,

"You're hands aren't the only thing I'm worried about."

Sam looked up at Reggie, his blue eyes large and dark with understanding as he felt the mood in the room shift. It was something they had yet to deal with. Until now, most of the focus had been on the physical damages he'd sustained from the treespirit. No one had said a word about the events which had proceeded that, the ones which had, at long last, allowed him to use his powers.

"You're worried about my mind. About, my gift?"

Reggie shifted uncomfortably on the bed beside him and fought the impulse to wring her hands.

"Look" she said quietly, "I. I don't really know, what exactly I did, to help you use your powers. What I changed, and how permanently. Or what other ramifications those changes might have on you."

She put her head in her hands, "It's probably the single most irresponsible thing I have ever done with my gift." Her eyes were misty with shame and worry, when she looked at him again,

"I'm sorry."

Sam shook his head hard. "Don't be" the bandages wouldn't let him grab her hand, so he settled for patting it awkwardly.

"Please don't. You saved us. Me and him. If I hadn't been able to help you save him, I'd have died myself, knowing that I had failed him." Sam's eyes were earnest and intense as they locked onto hers.

Sitting back and releasing her, he rambled on, trying to help her understand. "When I was little, Dean, Dean was everything I always wanted to be." He gave her a little smile,

"I swear he could do no wrong. I thought he's scattered the stars with his own two hands. And that never really changed. Not even when we got older. Oh I started to see him differently. It used to irritate the hell out of me, how he was always so perfect. The perfect son, the perfect soldier. He was so self-sacrificing. He used to make me feel like a selfish bastard, for wanting the things that I wanted. The normal everyday things, when he was so committed to _the mission_" Sam paused to take a deep breath and steady himself,

"But he never meant to. It was all my own issues and insecurities. He" Sam's voice thickened,

"He used to try so hard to give me some semblance of the life I wanted. I remember, when I was twelve, and I made the school soccer team, he covered for me with our Dad. Drove me to practice every week. Made up some lame story about taking me to practice maneuvers in rough terrain. Aka, the forest by our school." He shook his head again.

"When I left. I knew that I had to, that it was the right thing. But the way he looked at me. I felt like I had killed him. Personally stuck a knife in his heart." Sam's eyes were bright with unshed tears. His remembered pain needled Reggie's heart, but she didn't reach out to him yet. She knew he wasn't done. This pain, this guilt, he had carried for a long time, and he needed to finish, to purge it. She sat quietly as he went on, no longer really talking to her. Just remembering.

"Those years. For part of them, I almost hated him, because, even more than my Dad, I missed him. I couldn't let him go. It was like he tainted everything I had worked so hard for, because without him, knowing what I had done, that I had betrayed him, I couldn't be happy. Even though I had everything I had ever wanted. And it was because, somehow, I still felt like I had when I was a kid. Dean and Sam. It made me furious that I needed him to define me, that he was that much a part of me….." Sam's voice petered out.

Reggie finally spoke, "He felt, feels, like that about you too you know." She stroked a comforting hand over his hair.

"You" she sighed, "I think that after your mother died. You be came his whole life."

Sam shook his head, "And I hated him for putting that on me. For making me responsible. How do you live with yourself, knowing that to save your own soul, you have to destroy the one person that you love more than anything?"

Reggie looked at him calmly, "Sometimes Sam, you're too many shades of grey."

He raised his eyes, "Don't you think I know that. Even with everything that's happened, even with Dad telling Dean that he might have to kill me. Do you know what I'm afraid of? Not that he will" Sam's face was twisted, "I'm afraid that he won't!"

Reggie didn't say anything, she knew Sam would get there himself.

"No" he hung his head, " I know that he won't. For Dean, this is black and white. He will save me. Because that is who is. And it's the only reason I can keep going. That's why I had to be able to help him. Why I couldn't have lived with myself if I didn't. If I let my own fear stop me. I've already put him through a helluva a lot. I couldn't let him down again. Whatever you did, whatever the cost, you saved us both."

Reggie shook her head. "You two make me nuts. Why does it have to be so complicated? You love him, he loves you. That is the motivation behind everything you two nutcases do, and have done. Do you know" she said quietly,

'That he was proud of you when you left?" Sam looked shocked.

"Oh yes, he was. He was angry, and he was hurt. But he was also proud. Glad, that you were strong enough to break away, to fight for what you wanted. And he doesn't want this life for you."

When she was done, Reggie, sighed and covered her mouth with her hand. She shouldn't have said that. If Dean wanted Sam to know, he'd have told him. Damnit! She had been doing so well, at staying out of the complicated drama that was playing out between the brothers.

Sam was looking at her like she'd just dropped an anvil on his head.

"Look" she said, "I know that you can't exactly forget that I just said that. But do me a favour and try okay. I shouldn't have interfered. Dean would be furious if he knew that I knew. Even though I wasn't trying to find out. He has a really bad habit of yelling, emotionally anyway."

"That's funny" said Sam, " I kinda know what you mean.When I was fighting the treespirit, I could feel the two of you. Your energy, and sort of, your state of being. I haven't been able to since though."

Reggie sighed. "Would you mind if I just" she wiggled her fingers,

"Had a really quick look around. I won't take more than a second, and I promise not to peek at anything else. I would just feel a lot better, if I could try and figure out exactly what I did."

"Go ahead" said Sam.

Reggie smiled at the easy trust in his voice. For someone who was so uncomfortable with his own powers, he was certainly very accepting of hers.

"Thanks" she said.

"No problem. I have total confidence in you" he replied. Her smile widened, and she stroked a hand over his hair again, mimicking the gesture with her power, stroking her awareness over him.

Sam saw Reggie's eyes widen in surprise.

"What?, What? What'd you do?" he asked apprehensively.

She looked at him.

"Nothing" her confusion was evident in her voice.


	47. Chapter 47

Author's Note: Hey everyone, okay, this is a long chapter, but it kinda all needs to go together. Anyway, I made the decision I did about Sam's powers because, if he did have them, there wouldn't be much for Dean and Reggie to do. Enjoy.

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Sam blinked, "What do you mean, nothing?"

Reggie narrowed her eyes and focused her gift, carefully probing for the power she knew should be awake and seething within Sam. But she couldn't find it. There was just the same, smooth, quiet, slumbering presence, and whispered promise of what she knew should be there.

"It's, it's, dormant again." She said.

"What do you mean?" asked Sam.

Reggie rubbed her eyes and tried to figure out what was going on.

"Ummmm, okay, this is maybe a bit of a fanciful image, but, before the treespirit, before I messed with your head, your gift registered on my senses, kind of like a sleeping dragon. Something that I knew was there, and I knew was strong, but it wasn't active. What I changed that day, I'm not so sure it was your power. I think I just kind of, bypassed all of the emotional issues that have stopped you from accessing it. Now that I think about it, you had already made the decision to use it, you were already seeking it. It was already awake, before I got involved. I don't think that it was me that caused your telekinetic and telepathic abilities to surface Sam."

She looked at him, the threads of information, past and present, coming together in her mind.

"I think it was because Dean needed you. Because he was in mortal danger. It makes sense. Everything you just told me, about how badly you felt you had to save him. And you told me that the first time you ever used them, was when you were trapped, and had that vision of Dean dying."

"So what does that mean?" demanded Sam. "That my powers are linked to Dean?"

Reggie shook her head. "Not exactly. Listen, my Gran, she was a physic, she knew about this kind of stuff. But she'd really only started to teach me before she died. But here's my working theory. You have visions pretty often right?"

He nodded, "Yeah."

"But you've only ever done the telekinesis/telepathy stuff twice, including yesterday, right?"

"Right" he confirmed.

"Okay, well, as far as I know, it's pretty unusual for a person to have more than one kind of psychic ability. You have three. My guess is that the telekinesis and stuff are latent abilities. They're" she looked for the right word,

"Buried. Repressed. They only come out when you really, and I mean really, need them. I'm not sure that they'll ever be something that is at your immediate disposal."

"Okay" said Sam, "So you're telling me that the killer headaches, the flashing lights, the collapsing in public, that I can continue to do on a regular basis, but the cool stuff, moving things with my mind etc., to use that I have to wait until someone I love is about to die?"

"Or you experience and emotional crisis of the first caliber for some other reason" she replied, looking apologetic.

"Great" said Sam, laying back against his pillows, defeated.

"So, it turns out that, after everything, my really useful gifts, they come with emotional padlocks."

"That would be my guess" said Reggie.

"Typical" muttered Sam.

"The only one of my powers that I can really use, is the random, painful, usually cryptic and often useless, visions. Just call me migraine-man."

"They aren't useless Sam" began Reggie.

"Oh yeah" snapped Sam.

"Most of the time I've got no idea what they are about, or why I'm getting them. And when I do know, half the time, all that information is good for is to let me know how awfully the last person I failed to save, died."

"Sam" she said softly.

He shook his head, "Just forget it, okay. I should have known." He sat back up and sighed, Reggie reached out to drain off some of the frustration she could feel clouding and smothering his mind. She couldn't imagine what that would be like. To discover that there was some part of yourself that was beyond your grasp. In a way, Sam had been right. Some of his powers were out of his conscious control. She knew how hard it must have been. At least with the telekinesis, he would have felt less helpless.

He still thought that the demon had done something to him, that it had some dark design of which he was a part. Being able to access his other powers, to control them, would have made him feel more in control of the situation. Still, honestly, Reggie was glad that she hadn't flipped some irreversible switch inside Sam that day. To have as much power as she sensed within him alive and active, to have it manifesting in so many different ways. She still didn't think that the demon had given Sam his gifts. Still believed, absolutely, that his powers were not some seed of evil. But, she had to wonder if he would have had them, all of them, if he could have so many, without there having been some sort of supernatural interference in their development. However, she thought it might be best to keep that to herself for now. Sam was back to feeling negatively about his gift, and she didn't want to add to that feeling of self-alienation and helpless anger. For now, she'd keep and eye on him, and keep quiet.

"Hey" Sam sounded tired, "What are you thinking?"

Reggie gave him a bright smile. She thought she knew what might cheer him up.

"I'm thinking it's time we had a look at those hands. Maybe we could lose some of the bandages."

"Really?" Sam let out a little whoop.

"Well haleje-frikin'-luja."

Reggie shook her head and went to get the first aid kit.

It was several more hours before Dean finally returned from the library. He'd probably stayed longer than he had to, but somehow, going back to the tiny hotel room, facing Reggie and her smile…..he'd just needed a little more time. _I should do this tortured bit more often_, he thought ironically to himself as he climbed out of the car and stuck his key into the motel door marked 11. _I sure am a helluva a lot more productive._ It was true. Dean's self-imposed exile from the motel had proved to be very useful. He had found an abundance of information on poor old Ronnie Becker. It would make wrapping this case a whole lot easier. And Dean would be really glad to get it over with and get the hell outa dodge. Because all that alone time was also good for thinking deep thoughts. The kind he usually liked to avoid.

A lot had happened, in the past two days, that he didn't want to dwell on. He was hoping that, when they finally got out of this place, he'd be able to shake the strange feeling that had come over him. It felt as though, as though he was never quite alone. It had begun as soon as he'd awakened from his second encounter with the reaper. On one level, he had a sneaking suspicion, that he was, in fact, feeling the ramifications of Reggie's heroics. When she had saved his life. When she had touched his soul. He knew that it hadn't been the tug of her spiritual hands, nor even his own stubborn determination to survive, that had drawn him back to the world of the living. It had been her voice calling him, across worlds, across time. She had called, and he had come.

He shivered and shook off the thoughts. Closing them down, casting them out and away. Shutting out his feelings, shutting them off, ignoring them, Dean was a champion repressor. Ten minutes from now, it would be as though he'd never actually come anywhere near admitting, what he had just nearly admitted. When he walked through the door, he was surprised to see Sam, propped up in bed, laptop resting on his bent knees, clacking busily away.

"Hey there stubby" he held up his own hands,

"What happened to your mittens. Don't tell me you got the all clear from Little Miss Bedrest already?"

Sam shook his head and held up his hands, so Dean could see the compromise he and Reggie had finally arrived at. His palms had taken the worst of the damage and the healing flesh was stiff and sore, but his fingers, though pink and tender, were more or less alright. So, Reggie had rigged the bandages so that his palms were as zealously encased as ever, but his fingers were left bare and free to move. Well, almost. All the gauze between his fingers made him a bit clumsier than usual, but from Sam's point of view, even a little dexterity was a vast improvement over almost forty-eight hours of mummy-like immobilization.

"Huh" said Dean, "Not bad."

"Yeah" replied Sam. "I've been looking for a dividing spell, or ritual."

"Oh?" said Dean, "Why do you think we'll need that?"

"Well, Reggie and I were chatting about the case earlier and I was telling her about some of the other ghosts we've dealt with before, and how we've never come across what you'd call a "blended" spirit, when I realized that wasn't exactly true."

Dean's eyebrows rose, "Oh no?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Remember old Cyrus and his truck?"

"Oh yeah" murmured Dean.

"Well" said Sam, "I figure this is kinda the same thing. And, if you'll recall, burning Cyrus' body didn't get rid of the part of his spirit that had infected the truck."

"Oh I remember" said Dean darkly. It had only been the most terrifying half hour of his life. Being chased down the dark back roads of Mississippi, only to end the evening playing a deadly game of chicken with the monster truck from hell, because Sam had a hunch. An unconfirmed hunch.

Seeing the look on Dean's face, Sam plowed on hastily, hoping the next bit of information would side-track his brother.

"Well, I thought, since we can't get near the tree without risking another Snow White episode" Dean's scowl darkened,

"I figured we'd better find a way to detach the spirit from the tree first. Although" Sam added, scratching his head,

"I'm not really sure how the spirit became attached to the tree in the first place. I mean, with Cyrus, it was his truck, that he had used while committing a series of murders, in which his body was entombed. I mean, I think it must take quite a bit of violent history, to forge that kind of connection. Don't you think?"

"I don't know" said Dean, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "That thought never really occurred to me!"

"I said I was sorry" Sam reminded him calmly. "And I was right. So I don't see what all the fuss is about."

"You….You don't see…." Dean was having trouble getting the words out.

"Okay, okay" said Sam quickly, "No need to dwell on the past" he gave the laptop at little jiggle, "New case, new problem. Let's just, do our job."

Dean was still glaring at him, but he nodded.

"I think Ronnie's death qualifies as pretty violent" he said.

"Oh yeah?" asked Sam.

Dean nodded tiredly. "Yeah. It was real nasty. I'll tell you about it tomorrow."

Dean pulled off his coat, finally walking fully into the room.

"Hey Dean?" said Sam.

Dean stopped.

"I know that tone. I hate that tone." He sighed.

"Okay, let's make this as quick and painless as possible. What's on your mind, Samantha."

Sam glared at him. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed to yank off his boots.

"Correct me if I'm wrong here, but, I'm guessing you want to talk about "feelings"." He said it with a grimace.

For a second, Sam thought about denying it. Thought about changing the subject, or trying to ease into it.

The hell with it.

"When I left, to go to Stanford, how did you feel?"

Dean's head snapped up, concentration shifting form his snarled laces to Sam's face.

"What brought this on?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing" Sam, picked awkwardly at the bed cover.

"Nothing" repeated Dean disbelievingly.

"So, after more than four years, almost five, you just all of a sudden want to talk about that day."

_That day_. It needed no other, more specific label. They both knew exactly what they were talking about. _Hurt. Abandoned. Betrayed._

Sam shifted, "I just, just." He dropped his head.

"I wanted to tell you. Leaving you, it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do."

Dean sighed and dug his fists into his eyes.

"Look Sammy" he said softly. "I can't pretend that I wasn't angry. Hell, I don't know if I've ever been more furious. But, you should know. I did understand."

"You did?" asked Sam, his voice a little querulous. He felt like he was seven years old again, desperately needing his big brother's reassurance.

"Yeah. I didn't even know, didn't even realize, that I was on your side, until Dad said he was going down there to bring you back."

What!?" cried Sam. "When?"

"About two months after you'd left."

"But he never came." said Sam.

Dean shook his head.

"I found him packing up the truck one day. Said he was going to get you. Haulin' your but back whether you wanted to come or not." Dean looked up at his brother.

"You have to understand Sam. It was because he was afraid. Worried, about what might happen to you, if he wasn't there." There was a little note of desperation in Dean's voice. Sam understood how badly his brother needed him to realize, and acknowledge their father's love. And Sam had finally understood, after their father had died of course, that in the end, he had loved them more than anything. Even more than his quest for vengeance. Sam understood, probably better than Dean, that it had not been a hard decision for John Winchester. It had been easy. In truth, the simplest, most natural thing in the world, to trade his life for his son's. It was what any parent would do.

"I know" he looked earnestly at his brother.

"Really Dean. I know how much he loved me. Loved us."

Dean nodded. "Good" his voice was thick.

"But that still doesn't explain why he never showed at Stanford" said Sam.

A faint smile ghosted across Dean's face.

"I wouldn't let him."

"What?" Sam's whisper was barely audible.

Dean shook his head.

"Until that moment, I thought that was what I wanted more than anything. To have you back. To go get you and bring you home. But seeing him getting ready to do it. Talking about how the next hunt really needed three, how you belonged with us. I realized that it was _what I wanted_. Not what you wanted. So I told him he" Dean took a deep breath.

"It told him he couldn't."

Sam's jaw hung slackly. "And how'd he take that?"

Dean's smile was rueful,

"Not too well." He sighed,

"We had hell's own fight." He ran a thumb absently along the small scar on the right side of his chin.

"That's were I got this. By the time we were done, we were both so bloodied and bruised we could barely stand."

"You beat him" there was awe in Sam's voice.

Dean shook his head.

"His heart wasn't in it. He knew I was right. Next day we loaded up the truck and headed for Boulder and reports of a ghostly cougar that was hunting cows, and farmers. Never said another word about it."

"Dean" began Sam, but his brother held up a hand to forestall him.

"You asked me how I felt, I'm tellin' you. I was proud Sam. I was real proud of you, for having the guts to do it. To go out there on your own."

"You make it sound like I was the one facing the scary stuff. Living with nightmares."

"As far as I'm concerned, you were. I know that what we do, what we see and deal with, to most people, it's terrifying, completely beyond them. But to me" he shook his head,

"It's that world" he made an expansive hand gesture, "Out there, that's scary. I don't know how to live there Sam. This" he shrugged, "This world of nightmares as you call it, is where I belong. It's all I know."

Sam was speechless. "Dean, that's not true. You don't have to live your life alone."

Dean gave him another of those faint, heartbreaking smiles.

"No?" he asked.

"When this is all over, the hunt for the demon, you gonna stick with the life Sam? You gonna be a hunter forever?"

Sam wanted to deny it, but he couldn't, he couldn't stay, wouldn't. He would leave Dean again.

"Just because I'm don't want to keep hunting, doesn't mean I'll stop being your brother Dean."

"No, that's true" Dean's smile was a bit more genuine.

"And who knows" said Sam softly,

"If I'll even survive this. And if I do, maybe I will decide to be a hunter. This life changes you Dean. Maybe by the time this is all over, I'll be in too deep to get out."

Dean shook his head vehemently.

"No way Sammy. I won't let that happen. It's my fault you're here. I'm such a selfish bastard. After everything I said to Dad, about letting you have your own life, in the end, I'm the one who went down there and dragged you back, because I didn't want to do it alone. That wasn't fair, and I'm sorry. When this is over, your getting out. I'll see to it. You still have a chance Sam, at a real life, and I intend to see you take it."

The silence was heavy, full of words that were to flimsy to carry the weight of the emotions they signified, love, gratitude, grief, and so went unsaid.

Dean levered himself off the bed and headed to the bathroom, turning back just as he reached the door.

"You never told me what brought this little emotional expose on" he said.

"Uhhhhh" stammered Sam.

"Oh no" said Dean, holding up a hand,

"Let me guess. This uncomfortably intimate moment brought to you by one Miss Reggie Thorpington, meddler extraordinaire."

"Now Dean" said Sam,

"She didn't mean too. We were just talking about what she did with my gift when the treespirit attacked us, and we got to talking and, it might have slipped out. She's not snooping around Dean. She says, she says you yell." He was babbling, trying to head off the anticipated explosion. It never came.

Dean leaned against the doorjam and sighed.

"Relax Sam. I'm too tired to lose it. And besides, I know she's not trying to 'hear' me. Whatever happened that day it" he trailed off, finishing silently, _linked us_.

"It what?" prompted Sam.

"Nothing" said Dean.

Sam was amazed. Despite the bite in his earlier comment, Dean seemed to be taking it all in stride.

"Wow Dean. You're being so calm, so reasonable, so mature. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

Dean chuckled and shrugged,

"You've got the mojo, or whatever the hell it is, too, and you're still my brother. A lot has changed lately. We've met good Vampires and bad hunters. You've got to roll with the punches Sammy. Reggie's a good" he paused.

" Friend" he decided. "To us. I know she's not tryin' to pry."

Sam shook his head. The amazing thing about Dean was, he didn't play by the rules. Any rules. He was, in his beliefs, at once both rigid and flexible. He did see the world in back and white, and he didn't like to admit he was wrong, but when he was, and he'd accepted it, he just picked up, changed camps, and came down equally hard on the other side of the fence. No conflict of interest, no questions asked. As hard assed as he could be, Dean always did the right thing, because as far as he was concerned that was the _only_ rule. So when he made up his mind, it was simple. There was good and there was bad, sometimes the lines changed, but they didn't blur.

"She told you huh?" asked Dean.

"I told you, she didn't mean too, it just sort of, came out" Sam defended Reggie.

Dean sighed, "Where is Benedict Arnold anyways?"

"Here" said Sam, dropping his knees, so Dean could make out Reggie's small form where she was curled against Sam's side. She'd been completely hidden behind his large body.

Dean shook his head. "She must be mighty tired, to drop off with all the lights on and everything, and us yakking away."

"Yeah" said Sam quietly, "Well" he grinned at his brother,

"I gotta admit, I'll bet living with the two of us would be more than enough to wear most people out."

Den snorted,

"Speak for yourself, I am the soul of calm. It's just cause she so high strung. Always worryin' about everything and everyone.."

"Helping us to carry our emotional burdens, dealing with the supernatural, which she's really only just found out existed, saving our buts" continued Sam.

"Yeah, yeah" muttered Dean, finally heading into the bathroom.

When he came out ten minutes later, dressed for bed, Sam had put the laptop away and turned out the lights. Dean paused at the base of his brother's bed.

"What?" asked Sam.

Without a word, Dean walked around to the opposite side of the mattress, and scooped Reggie up into his arms.

Sam's jaw dropped.

"What?" demanded Dean. "Have you seen the bruises she gets, after spending the night with you?"

"Uh, no. Right. Sorry" said Sam, shutting his mouth.

It wasn't really Dean's actions that shocked him, it was the faint suggestion territorialness in his brother's posture, when he'd whisked Reggie up into his arms. It was the way she reacted, barely twitching, certainly not awakening or resisting, but rather curling, familiarly, against Dean's chest. It was the almost invisible trace of possessiveness in Dean's body language, when he lay Reggie in the bed they shared and climbed in beside her. Some fleeting impression of rightness that said that was were she belonged, with him. Sam blinked. Dean was looking at him like he was nuts.

"Good to sleep Sammy" he suggested casually, rolling over. Sam shook his head. He must have imagined it.

In the other bed, Dean waited until he was sure Sam had fallen asleep, before wrapping Reggie up in his arms. He'd spent half the evening thinking about all the reasons why he should deny himself what had become a nightly ritual, but in the end, it was pointless. When he woke up in an hour, she'd be there anyway. And he didn't know whose doing that was, hers or his, but he figured it was just best not to think about it too much.


	48. Chapter 48

Author's Note: Hey, sorry this took so long to get posted. Life has been making a nuisance out of itself lately. Mostly plot advancement. Enjoy.

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Another nameless little dinner in another nameless little town. Reggie shook her head at her attempt to put a romantic spin on what had become a regular part of her life, while she waited for the Winchesters to order their breakfast. The town wasn't nameless, and the sign out front proudly proclaimed that this particular backwater chow stop, belonged to somebody named Earl. She looked suspiciously at the muddy coloured solution in her chipped mug, the waitress had assured her it was tea, and sniffed experimentally. She pushed it resolutely away, hoped ferverently that the food would at least be edible, and tried to focus on what Sam was telling her about separation rituals.

"I found it on a website which posts transcriptions of old misselanies and breviaries. This one was from the fourteenth century or so. It's really cool. And, I think, pretty old, because event though the ritual is in Latin, the symbols you carve into the representational object, you know, the one that you cut in half, I'm pretty sure they're runes."

Reggie glanced at the paper he held out to her, and nodded her head.

"Ogham runes" she confirmed.

"Ritual's probably Irish in origin. Though God only knows how it came to be in the breviary. They're like late Medieval catchalls for religious information. Anything the average wandering mendicant preacher might need to combat sin and evil wherever he found it."

She sniffed and shook her head.

"Really corrupted a lot of texts. You'd better hope that wasn't one of them."

"Yeah" agreed Sam. "But, it's the best I could do on short notice."

Reggie nodded.

"They have some nice ones at……" she trailed off. They had beautiful examples of early rituals and prayers which portrayed the blended Christian/pagan nature of early Celtic Christianity at Trinity Collage in Ireland. But of course, she no longer had access to such things. She'd left that life behind. Her somber thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her food. Reggie smiled with relief, even Earl could only do so much to plain old scrambled eggs. They were a bit on the wet side, but, she was hungry enough to overlook it. She tried not to glower when the waitress, this time a redhead, who giggled pertly and deliberately brushed her hand against Dean's while she refilled his coffee cup.

She'd have seen for herself that his answering smile was at best, an absent, almost automatic response, that Sam would have classified as Dean's version of "auto-pilot" flirting, if she hadn't turned resolutely away to stare out the window.

Dean was concentrating on the notes he'd taken down at the library yesterday afternoon. He'd been in such a hurry, he was now having a bit of a hard time reading his own, hasty scrawl. Cursing under his breath he shoved away his plate, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pen.

"Disemboweled!" he crowed suddenly.

"That's right! The poor bugger was gutted, it's "mbow"" he said to the other two, as if they should understand his ranting.

Reggie had stopped cold, blanching, a bite of soggy scrambled egg halfway to her mouth.

"Must we talk shop at the table" she groaned, setting down her fork. "I mean, I'm eating here."

Dean looked confused, "So?" he said, grabbing his own food and digging in.

She shook her head despairingly.

"Nevermind."

He shrugged.

"Whatever. Listen, here's what I figure happened to Ronnie, to get him tangled up with that tree."

Reggie sighed and shoved aside her plate. She'd always considered herself to have a strong stomach, but the soft, slippery eggs just couldn't be tolerated if they were going to discuss "disemboweled" children.

Dean was still talking.

"As far as I can tell, or, at least, infer, after Ronnie Sr. died, Hilde….whatever her name is, wasn't very interested in her son, and, once she got remarried, I'm gonna guess she cared about him even less. Anyway, it looks like the kid spent most of his time off by himself, in the woods near their house. And one night, he didn't come home. Hilde wasn't concerned enough to go looking, or who knows, maybe she didn't even really notice that he was missing. She didn't even raise the alarm until three days after he'd disappeared. By then, it was way too late for Ronnie."

Dean paused to shake his head in disgust.

"Poor kid" he murmured.

"On that first night, Ronnie ran amuck of a pack of local wolves, or, maybe it was dogs, according to the paper, reports were inconclusive, but, either way, something took a nice chunk out of his belly. He managed to crawl up into a tree, but, he was too badly hurt to move, and nobody came looking, so he" Dean swallowed,

"Bled out. All over the tree. I'm gonna guess that either the current tree is a sapling sprung from the original. Or, it's growing in the same ground. Either way, there's a history of violence and blood."

Reggie felt bile rise in her throat. She felt again the sudden flashes of emotion she'd caught from the tree. Anger, fear. She spiraled away into the dark nightmare a little context made of those fleeting emotions. Oh God, that poor little boy, he must have been so afraid, so alone. So angry at his mother. She hadn't come to save him, hadn't cared enough to even notice he was gone.

"Hey" Sam's arm was a warm, welcome weight around her shoulders.

"He" her voice cracked,

"He was so scared" she whispered.

"And now" she shook her head,

"He's so angry."

Dean looked at her with concern. The woman had such an expressive face. You didn't have to by psychic to read the empathetic swell of misery and pain there. He'd never known anyone who took the pain of strangers so much to heart. Not even Sam, the king of bleeding hearts. For a moment he wondered what it would be like, to carry such a burden. To feel all the pain in the world, that was and had ever been. To feel the hurt of a child that had lived almost two hundred years ago, even though all that was left of him was an echo of rage and pain. She made him see in ways he never had before, the human beings that lay behind the ghosts. She built them up inside her head, from whatever faint whispers lingered, added back the innocence, and the loss. She grieved for them. And it made him worry for her. Every angry spirit had a story, and she was too gentle, to susceptible, he knew that she'd bleed for every single one. She shouldn't have to carry the burden of the dead as well as the living.

"It's awful, what happened to him" agreed Sam.

"Yeah" said Dean, looking away from the picture Sam and Reggie made, the tiny, tawny haired woman tucked into the large, dark haired man. Their connection was tangible, and Dean knew that it was ridiculous to be jealous, but he couldn't quite quash the feeling of envy that snaked through him.

_You don't want her to feel about you the way she feels about Sam_. He reminded himself. _Yeah_ said another voice, _Cause all that sisterly affection would really get in the way of, well, you know, all the hot, sweaty sex. _And that mental image was more than enough to snap Dean out of his momentary funk. His body reacted the way it always did, making his back stiffen at the sudden discomfort of jeans that were now just a bit to tight.

_Bugger_. He thought. _Think about the dead kid. Remember, the one that nearly suffocated you the other day?_ Dean shook himself and focused on his work.

"Anyway" he said firmly,

"After tonight, Ronnie won't be feeling anymore anything. And the locals will be safe."

Reggie didn't look very happy.

"What?" he asked.

"You're going to burn him? Kill him?" she demanded.

"Reggie" he sighed.

"That's what you do with an angry spirit. I don't think that we're going to be able to reason with him. Not after more than a hundred years of bitterness and hate and fear. Most of what Ronnie was didn't survive his death, much less the last century of festering fury and murder. There really isn't any other way. He's already tried to kill us once."

Reggie frowned, but she couldn't argue. There hadn't been much of anything human, much less reasonable, in what she had felt from the treespirit. But she hated that there was nothing they could do. When she looked back at Dean, she'd expected to see the same nonchalance in his eyes that sounded in his tone. But instead there was compassion and regret. He wasn't any happier about it than she was, but he accepted that in this case, it was merely what had to be done. Ronnie couldn't be allowed to go on hurting people. She sighed and looked at Sam, he gave her another squeeze.

"Some days' he told her quietly,

"This job really sucks."

"Tell me abut it" she answered.

Reggie and Dean made there way to the Impala in silence. He paused to lean on the hood while they waited for Sam to finish up inside.

Reggie shifted from one foot to the other. She wanted to say something, wanted to apologize for judging him, for thinking him so harsh. She supposed it was a knee jerk reaction. Blaming him, belittling him, it was a good way to fight off what she felt, the rising tide of yearning that threatened to swamp her whenever she really just looked at him. But she was too honest a person, to allow that impulse to get the better of her once she had recognized its insidious presence. Dean was far more than most people ever realized, a fact she was still realizing herself.

"Sam told me about the other night." She blurted out.

_Oh brilliant!_ She chided herself, _Like you have any business sticking your nose into that_, **_again!_**

His eyebrows shot up.

"Well he's just a regular chatty Kathy."

Reggie shook her head and backpedaled.

"What I mean to say is that I'm sorry that I, you know" she jerked a shoulder uncomfortably,

"Interfered. He didn't give me the details or anything, but he told me it was a really good talk" she offered.

"Look" he said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and then lifting his arms so the leather spread out to either side of him like wings,

"I've more than filled my caring and sharing quota for, oh say, the next six months, so, if you're hoping for a repeat performance, you're out of luck."

Again Reggie shook her head,

"That's not what I meant" she said, exasperated. How oh how did they always managed to get so far off course?

"Oh no? This wasn't some little exercise to see if you could get me to open up, you know, share my feelings? But then I forgot, it's not really up to me is it? When it comes to what you know and don't know about me."

It was said out of defensiveness and a lingering irritation and edginess that was forty percent emotional unease, and sixty percent pure, frustrated lust.

His hostility fired her own, and for once, she had none of the emotional cues that came with her gift to guide her.

"What I was going to say" her voice was cool,

"Was that I've put up a mental block against you that makes the great wall of china look like it's made of lego. And that you don't have to worry. I know I've said it before, but this time, barring a crisis, I should be able to keep you out. All the way out."

Dean snorted,

"Well that's the problem isn't it. In this line of work, you can never really rule out a crisis, can you?"

With that he slid into the car. Reggie stood stalk still, puzzled. That wasn't the reaction she'd been expecting. That had almost been as though he accepted the fact that, as long as she was with them, somehow, somewhere, she would likely be in his head. The man was always surprising her. Not that he'd sounded happy about it, and she couldn't really blame him for that. When she thought of all the things about herself she kept locked away and concealed, how terrifying it would be, how vulnerable she would feel, if it were him that could walk into her heart unhindered, and look his fill at all the private, painful carnage housed there.

"Damn!", the curse was heartfelt.

She opened the passenger door and sat down.

"I'm going to talk. I get it, you don't like to talk, that's fine, you can just listen."

He didn't look at her, but she knew he was paying attention.

"I've told you a little bit about my gift before. And I can't blame you for being uncomfortable about it. But I swear, you're just so, loud. I used to think Sam was the strongest voice I'd ever heard but….I "hear", if that's the word you want to use, you more clearly than most people. And I don't know why that is…"

The look he shot her said they probably both had a pretty good idea. It probably had something to do with the fact that he spent all of his time uncomfortably aware of her presence, and more than half of it lost in thoughts of her. He didn't know much about psychic powers, but he'd bet that they were, to some extent, like a two way radio. He was transmitting and she was receiving. He got it.

"I'll see what I can do about it on my end." He said quietly, and flashed her a wry smile.

"I always have been hard to ignore."

She smiled back as the tension between them dissolved.

"We sure are good at fighting over nothing" she observed.

The look he gave her was loaded, and made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

"Yeah, nothing" was all he said.

Sam yanked open the door and squished in next to Reggie.

"Let's get this show on the road" he suggested.


	49. Chapter 49

Author's Note: Hey guys. I thought that since the last post was so long in coming, and since I had this ready, I would put it up. Enjoy!

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The thin beam of the flashlight cut a swath of light through the thick gloom of the cold March night. Dean looked up at Reggie and Sam from his place inside the half-dug grave, and scowled at the small woman and his brother. Sam stood easily, feet braced apart, hands in his pockets staring off into the distance, while Reggie sat perched in the top of a large, square headstone beside a cement angel, her hand steady on the handle of the light. Dean shook his head while he looked at the two women, one a model of cool, empty perfection, the other, a warm, complicated, could drive him crazy with a look, creature with a sharp tongue and a sweet smile. She was sitting cross-legged, one arm leaning on her knee, chin propped on the supporting limb while her eyes wandered restlessly. The absent shuffling of Sam's feet jolted Dean back into the present and made him wonder how long he'd been standing there like a fool, staring at Reggie. A quick glance at Sam said his brother, thankfully, hadn't noticed.

"I still don't see why I'm the only one down here" he complained, as he once again put shovel to dirt.

Reggie's eyes slid away from the starry sky she'd been admiring. Well, actually, it had been more of a forced stare, designed to keep her eyes from lingering on the impressive bunch and slide of muscles under Dean's shirt while he put his broad back into the work at hand. Now he was slanting her an irritated look from under those sinfully long eyelashes while he bitched. She resisted the urge to lick her lips when he straightened to toss yet another shovel-full of earth onto the growing mound at her feet. The semi-frozen, hard packed winter soil made for hard going, he was streaked with dirt and sweat and damned if she didn't like him that way.

She blushed at her own thoughts and pushed them firmly away. _Oh if my friends could see me now_, she thought wryly. She was sitting, calm as you please, in a cemetery in the middle of the night, watching a grave be desecrated, and lusting after the man doing the desecrating! Reggie fixed a cool look on her face before meeting Dean's eyes.

"Because you keep telling me how you don't need my help" she reminded him.

"And I'm an invalid" chimed in Sam, holding up his still bandaged hands and giving his brother an innocent smile.

"How convenient" muttered Dean, thrusting down hard with the shovel, his strength renewed by irritation.

_Thwack! _The distinctive sound of impact, the hollow echo of metal on wood, made them all jump.

"It's about bloody time" said Dean, his exclamation heartfelt.

All in all, this was the final step in what had been a logistical nightmare. They'd spent most of the afternoon running around trying to find stores in the area that sold things like loadstones, raw amber and poppy oil. Standard fare for medieval magic, but not often stocked at the local grocery store.

"Sam" he held out a hand, "Pass me the crow bar."

"Nice coffin" observed his brother of the elaborate ebony affair.

"Trimmed in ivory" he added, as Dean, with no regard for the workmanship, jammed the flat head of an iron crowbar under the far lip off the lid and pushed down with all his weight.

Panting from the effort, his next words were a bit choppy, but the distain in them was clear.

"Like….the damn…headstone. Too little…..too late. The meaningless attempts……of a guilty mother to alleviate…..her conscience, after…..her goddamned negligence….." he paused to catch his breath,

"Got her kid…..killed." With a final heave and grunt of effort, he succeeded in prying open the inlaid cover.

Jumping out of the hole, he looked down at Ronnie's desiccated corpse,

"And besides, no matter how pretty the platter, in the end, we're all just worm food."

"Charming thought" said Reggie, wrinkling her nose delicately as she hoped off the headstone and bent to grab the salt and pass it to Sam. He took it from her and began to salt the bones, while Dean gathered the supplies for the separation ritual into a separate bag.

Reggie glanced up and caught him.

"What are you doing?" She demanded.

"I'm getting ready to go and finish this damn thing. I'll go perform the ritual, and then call Sam, and he'll toast the sucker."

Reggie's hands settled on her hips and her eyes narrowed. It was a posture he was coming to know all to well. It meant there was going to be trouble.

"If you think that after all the fuss and bother I went through three days ago to save your ass, I'm just going to let you go back there on your own, after that thing almost already killed you once, you're nuts." Her voice was fierce.

"And if you think I'm letting you come with me, you're nuts" he replied calmly.

"We don't know what will happen after I complete the ritual. Right now, the spirit's power is strengthened, but also confined, by the tree. Once I break that bond, there's no telling what it will be able to do."

"Exactly" she said stubbornly. "Which is precisely why you shouldn't go alone."

Sam was looking uneasy, caught in the crossfire as both combatants turned expectant eyes on him.

"Well" he began slowly, "I could go with Dean and Reggie could do the burning. It's not like it's hard" he began, but Reggie and Dean were both shaking their heads at him.

"You aren't going anywhere near that thing Sam" she said firmly.

"You said yourself that it was in your head, we have no idea what it might be able to do to you if you come within it's sphere of influence again. You're too vulnerable to it, it already knows you, so to speak."

He frowned at that and looked like he wanted to argue, but Dean cut him off,

"She's right Sammy. And besides, you still can't make a fist with those hands, which means you can't even grip a shotgun" he looked sympathetic but firm,

"I'm afraid you wouldn't be much use."

"There" said Reggie with satisfaction,

"It's settled then, I'll go with Dean, and Sam will stay here. When we give you the go ahead, you burn the bones. Hopefully we'll be able to co-ordinate it so that the spirit won't have time to give us any trouble."

Dean looked nonplussed, and felt rather like he'd just outsmarted himself.

"Hey" he began to protest again, but Reggie's look stopped him.

"We can argue about it some more if you like. In the end, you might even win, but, by that time, we could have been done and gone six times over. It's up to you."

He glowered at her. "Women" he muttered under his breath grabbing the bag and heading for the car.

"I heard that" said Reggie when she slid into the passenger seat.

Dean ignored her and rolled down his window.

"The second we get finished, we'll call you, and you put the torch to him" he said to Sam, who nodded.

"Be careful" he added, looking at Dean

"It's nasty" he said, allowing his look to speak silently to his brother, driving home the seriousness of the warning. He let his gaze slide across Dean to Reggie, who gave him a reassuring smile.

"You too" she said.

Sam stood alone in the cemetery and watched the Impala disappear into the night. He hoped to God his brother knew what he was doing. Of the three of them, Sam was the only one who had really fought with the treespirit. It had a vicious, animal quality to it that was unlike anything he had ever encountered before. Ronnie Becker was out for blood. Not that he could blame him, seeing how he'd died. Sam shook himself, Dean knew what he was doing and….a small smile twitched the corner of Sam's lips, his brother had Reggie to look out for him. That tiny, innocent looking package packed quite a wallop.

He wondered if his brother would ever realize that Cami's words to him had come true for both the brothers. _You don't take care of Reggie, she takes care of you._ Sighing, Sam sprinkled the waiting corpse with gasoline, and sat himself down on the hard ground. Letting his thoughts wander back to those few days in California, he let himself imagine what might have happened if it had been Cami who'd tumbled into his arms that day. The thought made him smile. He let the picture of her face fill his mind. _I wish you were here,_ it was no more than a wistful whisper inside his own head.

The orchard was dark and silent, the dead winter grass littered with the remnants of the farm's previous life. It had been quite a few years since the Smithwick's had worked the land and broken farm equipment, and old, weather-beaten ladders and bushels were strewn haphazardly amidst broken branches and piles of dead leaves, the faded slivery grey of the wood giving them a ghostly appearance. And amid the abandoned wreckage, rose the sinister, gleaming green glory of the tree. Moonlight flickered against the obsidian flesh of the devilish black apples. It made it appear as though the tree was winking at them with a hundred malicious eyes.

"Damn" muttered Dean, as he parked the Impala on the side of the road, close, but not too close, to the tree.

"That has got to be one of the creepiest things I have ever seen."

"Yeah" agreed Reggie, trying to keep her nerves out of her voice. It was all going to go smoothly, she assured herself. Dean was not going to get hurt. She wouldn't allow it. The compassion she had felt for the spirit of Ronnie Becker paled a bit, as she once again felt the raging, snarling aggression of the spirit. It was like a tethered beast, lashing and striking out at them in vain. Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes ran over the spot where Dean had fallen, where he had lay dying. No, she couldn't feel quite as sorry for Ronnie as she had that afternoon. Either way, it would all be over soon.

Dean and Reggie climbed out of the car, and he spilled the contents of the small shopping bag onto the hood of the car.

As he lay out a diamond of black cotton, inscribed with the Greek symbols for the four elements at each corner, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"When I start the chant, you're getting back in the car." It was not a request.

Reggie thought about arguing, and then gave it up as pointless. Let him believe that for the time being, it would make her life easier.

She gave a small smile as he went back to work, clearly having mistaken her silence for assent.

Pulling out his smaller hunting knife, he flicked it open and began to inscribe a pair of black candles with the runes Sam had copied into the journal. Reggie took the bottle of poppy oil and poured a small amount into a roughly hewn wooden bowl, and then dropped the loadstone into the slick liquid with a little flourish.

This she placed at the centre of the black diamond, before pulling a second bowl from the bag.

Dean watched Reggie as she poured another oil into the second bowl. A familiar scent rose to fill his nostrils. Reggie always smelled of honeysuckle and lemons. The lemon oil they were using as a carrier for the herbal ingredients of the spell was sacrificed from her personal supply. The smell of it brought scintillating memories to his mind. When she came to bed at night, after having a shower, the scent of the oil warmed by her skin would creep across the distance between them to caress his senses. He knew he'd never smell lemons again without thinking of her.

As always, it took a conscious effort to shake himself loose from the grip of his musings. The woman had a hellish effect on his focus.

Grumbling at himself, he finished quickly with the candles, while Reggie mixed saffron, rosemary and juniper into the lemon oil.

Dean set the candles on either side of the black diamond and pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket. Producing the contents, two small pieces of white amber, he placed them at the base of the candle wicks, and moved aside so Reggie could anoint the two fat black pillars of wax with the herbed oil. She set down the bowl and stepped back, swiping her hands on her jeans.

The were ready. There was only one ingredient left.

"What did you get to symbolically split" she asked him.

He gave her a wolfish smile and pulled a glossy, ripe, red delicious apple from the bag.

She shook her head, "How, appropriate."

"Poetic justice I say" he responded, thinking of the taunting, buzzing voices.

Dean took out his lighter. Holding it poised over the first candle, he looked at Reggie, the flame reflected in his eyes.

"Car" was all he said.

Reggie walked obediently to the passenger side of the car and opened the door, but she didn't get in. Dean's eyes narrowed, she stuck out her chin.

Rolling his shoulders, he debated whether or not it was worth spatting with her over. It wasn't as though, from her current position, it would take her more than two seconds to jump in and slam the door. Every muscle in his body was already stretched to the breaking point with tension. He was preparing to perform a magic spell, for God's sake. One that he wasn't sure would work, and, if it did, would probably free a vicious and violent force that had already tried to kill him, and, might he add, nearly succeeded. Really, it was lose lose. The last thing he needed was to get locked into a pointless battle of wills with his only backup. He decided to let it go.

"At the first sign of trouble, you get your butt in that car" he said.

She snapped off a mock salute, "Yessir."

He snorted at that, and concentrated on the job at hand.

First he lit the two candles, wrinkling his nose as the flames sputtered, and ate into the awaiting, sacrificial amber, filling the air with the sharp, acridic scent of burning tree resin. Then, he set the lighter to the pool of poppy oil at the centre of the cloth. Fire licked across the surface of the oil, hiding the submerged loadstone under orange tongues of flame. Carefully, Dean placed his knife, blade first, across the flaming bowl, allowing the fire to heat and purify the metal. He sprinkled more of the herbed oil across the knife, hearing the sizzle as it struck the hot blade. Setting down the bowl, he reached for the Latin incantation. God, he hated this kind of stuff.

Reggie watched Dean across the flames, as he stood over the impressive tableaux of occult endeavor. He looked…..decidedly out of place, in his leather jacket, with his brow furrowed in distaste, but very, very determined. She hid her smile. Dean would never make a good warlock, there was no mystery to his magic. To him, the ritual wasn't a marvel of the past, an awing proof that there was more to life than what could be seen and weighed and measured and touched. Such mystical, extra-sensory truths were not a revelation to him, he'd been living with them all his life. No, for Dean, magic was a tool. A weapon to be used when necessary, and in the long run, it was clear he would have infinitely preferred to have been able to solve this problem with his knife. However, his practical approach, while perhaps divesting the ritual of some of its potential impressiveness, was also disarmingly endearing. He hated this kind of magical mumbo-jumbo and she knew it, but here he was, obviously uncomfortable but dogged, the dead language of Rome tripping off his tongue.

Dean read out the first part of the complex Latin incantation, calling equally on the spirits of air, earth, water and fire, and the Catholic Holy Trinity, to empower his chosen instrument.

"In nomine patris, et filius, et spiritus sanctis" he intoned, completing the first stage of the two part ritual.

He heard Reggie suck in her breath as the blade of the knife suddenly glowed blue.

"Well at least we know it's working" muttered Dean, refusing to allow himself to be put off by the show of supernatural power.

Reggie shook her head at his off-hand comment. Magic wasn't her thing, though she knew that there were still those who would have called her a witch, as they had her Gran. She was a psychic, but her Celtic heritage had left her with a healthy respect for the living, animating forces of nature that made magic possible. She could feel the currents of power that were flowing now, Dean, oblivious as he was, at their centre.

Reaching out with her gift, she swirled a sensory finger through the shimmering stream of arcane energy, and smiled. It was the same, at its root, as her own ability. Founded unerringly, in the universal breath of life. There was no whiff of evil, it was the sister of the force that flowed through her own blood and body. As she had once told Dean, it was the wielder of the power, psychic or magical, and their intent, that gave birth to good or evil. Reggie let out a sigh of relief. At least she wouldn't have to worry about Dean suffering any ill effects from his foray into the craft.

Tentatively Dean reached for his knife, almost dropping it in surprise when he found it cool to his touch. Removing it from the flames, he used it to carve more runes, one into each side, of the apple, before placing the symbolic fruit inside the diamond.

Once again taking up the book, he began the final phase.

Carefully, he read out the five lines of Latin verse, meant to imbue the apple with the blended essence, so that the subsequent cutting of the fruit with the ritual knife, would sever the ties between the spirit and the tree.

Nothing happened.

"Did it work?" asked Reggie from her place by the car door, her psychic senses having already informed her that it hadn't.

Dean scratched his head. "I dunno. Somehow, I don't think so. I mean, with the knife, it was pretty clear something happened. This time, nada."

"Hmmmmm" she skirted around the door to come to his side and held out her hand for the book.

"Let me see."

"What, you read Latin now?" he demanded, hading it over.

She glanced at him absently as her eyes skimmed over the text,

"Of course I do" she said, as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

"Do you ever listen when I talk?" she muttered.

"For the last time, I'm a _Medievalist_", she stressed the academic title.

"So."

"So" her voice was ripe with exasperation,

"Do you know what language the learned classes, not to mention the church, used in the Middle Ages Dean?" she brandished the book under his nose.

"Latin."

"Right. Latin. How could I possibly study the period if I can't read the most prevalent language?"

"Alright, alright" he sounded surly,

"I get your point."

Shaking her head she went back to studying the ritual.

"I think I found the problem."

He looked at her incredulously, "You did?"

"Hmmm. Well, I think it's just a scribal error. Could have been made by the medieval scribe, but more likely, it's just that whoever did this transcription for that website was a amateur, and even the very best text editors sometimes make mistakes."

Laying the book on the hood, she pointed to the second to last line.

"You see here, how it says, 'harum anime', 'these souls'. Well, clearly, the pronoun is genitive, but this form, anime, with an e, it doesn't exist. It's probably an e for an ae, which is a common substitution in the Middle Ages, which would make this whole thing read as a partative genitive, that is 'of these two souls', which makes more sense in the overall context anyway. You say the Latin ae like modern "eye"" she added.

Dean gaped at her, "What?"

"You say it like "eye"" she repeated patiently.

"I'd like to know who taught you how to recite, you're pronunciation is atrocious" she added, as she walked back to take up her previous place by the open door.

Dean was still looking at her with shock.

"Well" she waved a hand in a 'get on with it' motion.

"Right" he said, turning away, no need to bother with the awe and disbelief, they had work to do.

Clearing his throat, and trying not to feel self conscious about his articulation, he began the chant again.

This time, when he finished, the symbols on the apple flared with the same blue light that the knife had.

"That's more like it" said Reggie.

Dean swallowed hard.

"Here comes the fun bit" he said softly, looking at her. His eyebrows raised in surprise, when he saw that the hated shotgun had appeared in her hands. He gave her a little nod and she racked the gun, bracing it on the roof of the car, pointing straight and steady, at the tree. Her cell phone sat beside the gun, already open, Sam's number blinking on the screen. All she had to do was press send. Dean took a deep breath and raised the knife,

"Here goes nothin'" he murmured, bringing it down in a sharp, practiced motion that split the apple cleanly in two.


	50. Chapter 50

Author's Note: And another one bites the dust. Though I'm afraid it's Reggie and Dean who'll be fed the most dirt. Enjoy!

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It was like the moment between falling and the sharp collision with the ground. Those few seconds stretched into an eternity of agonizing expectation. Reggie fought against her screaming nerves. The aftermath of the separation ritual was a strained, hushed stillness, fraught with the fearful assumption of attack, and a tentative hope of safety. For a moment, it had been as though time were suspended, the world had stuttered to a halt, and then started up again with a minor jolt. At first it had seemed like nothing had changed. But Reggie knew that the whip-like sting of the spirit's pain had been cut off abruptly, when the knife had fallen. Now, she didn't do so much as dare to breath, just incase she missed some infinitesimal sign of its reappearance.

A little ways to her right, Dean stood equally still, knife still in hand, the severed apple on the hood before him, body tense, eyes alert and scanning for danger.

There was nothing but the rustling sigh of the wind as it wove through the stiff, dry grass that grew between the trees. In the grove, two bodies stood frozen, held in place by the certainty that the quiet held only the illusion of peace and safety. Most of the trees around them were barren, the limbs grey with winter's temporary death, but there was one that stood out, green leaves and juicy red flesh bursting forth profusely, in an untimely show of spring. Life blossomed, and evil walked free.

Red flesh.

"Dean" whispered Reggie,

"The apples."

He nodded, the movement small, as if such restraint could somehow protect them from malevolent detection.

"I know, they aren't black anymore. I guess that means it worked." His tone too, was almost inaudible.

He turned carefully, eyes watchful, to look at her. "You getting anything from Ronnie?"

Reggie shook her head. "But that doesn't mean he's not out there."

"Right, why don't you put in that call to Sam" he began, walking slowly toward her.

She nodded, her hand reaching for the nearby cell phone. The sharp sting of pain, the force of an unexpected impact, surprised her.

She snatched back her hand, looking at the blood, as red as the apples in the moonlight, that welled from the newly opened cut on the back of her hand.

The whistling sound of disturbed air and Dean's shout had her ducking quickly, down behind the sheltering screen of the car as another dead branch whipped through the air above her head. The phone went flying, burying itself in the deep grass.

"Shit!"

Reggie heard Dean curse, and turned just in time to see him batting away a pair of bushels that came spinning though the air towards him with disconcerting force.

"Get in the car!" he yelled at her, the boom of his warning voice shattering the still night, as yet more makeshift weapons rose menacingly around them. Reggie ducked another projectile and looked around for Ronnie. She could still couldn't see him, and the tide of malice that infused the night air was to huge, to consuming, to track to the specific source. That made the shotgun in her hands totally useless against the unquiet spirit who was stalking them in the dark.

"Fantastic" she muttered.

Scooting around the open passenger door of the Impala, she raised the gun and blasted away another ragged, kamikaze bushel barrel which was flying though the air towards Dean's unprotected back.

"Will you get over here", she snapped, firing again, but only quickly enough to knock aside one of the large, heavy branches coming Dean's way.

The second thumped hard into his left leg, the sharp, broken edge digging though denim into flesh.

He cursed again, swiping at the blood and looking up just in time to see a small, sturdy step ladder launch itself towards the back of Reggie's head.

"Look out!" he roared. Covering the last few steps between them at a dead run, he grabbed her and spun around, putting his back to the danger and tucking her protectively against his chest.

Reggie both felt and heard the impact, the snap of tension that reverberated through Dean's body and into hers where they were pressed together. The dull thud when wood connected with flesh and bone. The ladder smacked hard into the back of Dean's head at the base of his skull. She felt the sudden laxness in his limbs, and the heavy, dead weight of his unconscious body pressing her down, bearing her to the ground. She squirmed and wriggled in vain. She couldn't budge the immense, prone form that covered hers from forehead to heels, pinning her to the earth.

_Damn, damn, dam….._ Her mental cursing broke off abruptly as she turned her head to the side and froze in horror at the sight that greeted her eyes. It was creeping slowly towards her, a large pool of crimson liquid, moving at a sluggish, but inescapable, inevitable, crawl over the ground. Trapped, she shuddered and thrashed, struggling helplessly to jerk her head aside, to stop the blood from seeping into the collar of her shirt, to keep the warm, sticky liquid from meeting the white skin of her face. But no matter how she strained and scrabbled and shoved, she could not escape.

For a moment, her terrified eyes were drawn away from the spreading pool, her attention captured by the dreadful beauty, of the garnet droplets that fell in slow motion, hanging like ruby tears in the night air, before splashing into the growing russet puddle. It stained the yellow grass into copper, and lapped against her fair skin in a macabre caress. She flinched and writhed hopelessly at the contact and her stricken gaze traveled up, following the bloody ribbon of red that tracked along a pair of cotton pants and shirt, until the raw, festering glory of the wound that fed the scarlet stream, assaulted her eyes.

It was a gaping, ragged maw, yawing wide in the belly of the little boy, crowned with bloody froth. The flesh around it was ripped and torn. Reggie's stomach rolled as she realize that much of what she was seeing, the tattered, eviscerated flaps and trailing ropes of tissue that decorated the outside of the wound, had once been inside. However, the grisly, physical repugnance of the spirit's wounded appearance was nothing compared to what she saw when she looked up into its dead eyes. The rage, fed by the terrible, helpless, desperate fear and a truly wretched despondency and pain, it slammed into her. Stealing her breath and threatening to tear away her sanity in the whirling maelstrom of its senseless fury and anguish.

Reggie scrambled wildly, clawing her way back from the precipice Ronnie had so easily slung her upon. She didn't bother to reach for her gift. There was nothing left for her to use against the ghastly specter. She could not make him feel any hurt, and anger, any fear, greater than that which he had already suffered. This was a creature of pure, animal instinct, driven mad by pain and rage. Her eyes widened with fear, when she saw Dean's discarded knife rise slowly from the ground. It floated, almost gently through the air, towards their tangled, prone bodies, to hover over his vulnerable neck. Reggie wrapped an arm protectively around the exposed flesh, the only response she could offer to the blatant threat sharp steel made to unguarded flesh . Ice condensed in her veins. He meant to kill them, and she was helpless to stop it.

Her mind was screaming at her. _Do something! Do something! Do anything!_ Her left hand searched desperately down the length of Dean's body, hunting for some kind of weapon, anything, that might help her to distract or defeat the deranged, frenzied spirit, that even now, was leering at them, drinking in her panicked desperation with glee, as the knife continued to spin, suspended, with taunting menace, over Dean's defenseless body.

Her blindly seeking fingers fumbled as they stumbled over the small, hard object in his jacket pocket. _Phone!_ She shrieked with relief inside her own head. And then screamed aloud, as the knife suddenly plummeted towards Dean's neck. At the sound of her scream, the blade snapped back, just before it would have plunged into flesh and though bone, severing Dean's spinal cord. The blade flickered as it danced in the moonlight, having returned once more, to hang ominously above Dean's head. Reggie's eyes snapped back to the spirit as her hand groped for the phone. He was torturing her, feeding off her fear.

Reggie did the only thing she could. She opened the floodgates. Let him feel the consuming, tearing, soul-slicing fright that washed through her, now, three days ago, when Dean's life hung in the balance. She held back nothing, hid nothing of the despair that awaited her in a world without him. The spirit rocked back, entranced by the myriad facets and colours of her pain. There was so much here. Dreams dying that had yet to be dreamt, yet to be allowed acknowledgement, even inside the her own head and heart. Seemingly bemused by the writhing, naked face of her anguish, Ronnie wasn't paying attention, when Reggie's finger finally found the button she was looking for. It was Dean's phone, she figured Sam would be #1 on speed dial.

In the cemetery, Sam lifted the ringing phone, his hand striking and dropping the match immediately upon seeing Dean's number flash on the screen, before he even bothered to pick up.

"Hello, Hello?" There was nothing but dead air on the other end of the line. Sam's heart leapt into his throat.

Tears rolled unchecked down Reggie's face as she confronted the consequences of her earlier actions. Ronnie sneered down at her, as the full weight of her own emotional agonies crushed down upon her mind and heart, swirling to mix with present panic and fear. There was so much pain. Her father. Dean. So much guilt, Abbey, her mother, again, Dean. So much that would never be. Her body shook violently with the force of her sobs as she let the grief devour her. So lost was she in the web of pain and loss she had woven for herself, she almost didn't notice the first sparks.

It was the noise really, the sharp, high snap and crackle, that splits the air when flame is set to dry tinder. She blinked, torn away from her inner demons by the welcome sight of Ronnie Becker's burning body. It started slowly, at the edges of his frame, and then, the small, curling tongues of flame began to gain momentum, soaring into great, ravenous gouts of fire, and Ronnie's phantom body folded in on itself as though made of parchment. Reggie shivered uncontrollably as the flaming spirit shriveled into nothingness, Ronnie's howling fury echoed long after his tortured soul had turned to ash and smoke. The knife fell to stick, point first, in the soft earth beside her head.

Weary beyond belief, Reggie turned her head away and lay back against the cold ground, still crushed beneath the weight of Dean's unconscious body, and tried to breath.

She didn't know how long she lay there, her body still immobilized beneath Dean's greater weight, her mind and heart retreating into a soothing state of numbness. For however long, she saw noting, felt nothing. Her senses, her mind, her body, all were worn to the breaking point by the continual stress of the last few days, and, after this final onslaught, were indulging in the blessed escape of an indifferent emotional paralysis. However, the pleasant anesthetic of oblivion, while capable of smothering her own needs for an infinite amount of time, did not extend to her concern for Dean. He was still a heavy, insensible weight pressing her into the ground. He hadn't awakened, she didn't know how badly he was hurt, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do for him, until she got him off her.

Wriggling uncomfortably, Reggie let her hands trail gently over his neck and head, where he had initially been struck. Yet another spike of fear lanced into her exhausted, over-charged system, when her fingers came away wet with blood.

"Oh God!" she murmured.

He had a head injury, and she couldn't ascertain how bad it was without going poking around blind, and that she was not about to do. Reggie fought the urge to dissolve into tears again. God! She couldn't handle this, not again, not tonight! She just didn't have the Goddamn stamina. For a moment, she collapsed back against the ground, drawing deep, ragged breaths, and trying to get a hold on herself. _Dean needs you._ She reminded herself. _Yes you're scared, and yes, that was awful, but you aren't the one bleeding, are you?_ She demanded silently of herself. _No, no you're not. And he's the reason. He wouldn't be here, out cold and helpless, if he hadn't been protecting you. Now pull up you fucking socks and get on with it!_

Sniffing back tears she would have rather died than allow a conscious Dean to see, Reggie gathered herself together. Wound up all the pain and the hurt and tucked it away, back into the little locked box in her heart. She ignored the aching in her head and throat, the dark wings of lingering terror that beat against the edges of her mind, and told herself repeatedly that she wasn't _that_ tired, until she started to believe it. Then, she took Dean's face in her hands and rested his forehead against her own. Their noses bumped. God, at this close proximity, she could see his freckles. They were faint, like a sprinkling of gold dust across the bridge of is nose.

What kind of demon-slaying, ghost-killing, witch-hunting bad-ass had freckles? she thought, and why had she never noticed them before? _Because usually, when you get this close to his face, you're distracted by his eyes, _she answered herself. But not tonight, tonight those eyes were closed in an unnatural sleep. He looked young suddenly, too young to carry the heavy responsibility, guarding his younger brother against a dark destiny, carrying the burden of life and death, the onus of a saviour, for Sam and for a thousand thousand nameless strangers, and then there was the pain she knew he harbored in his heart.

"Dean" she called softly, and, unable to stop herself, brushed a delicate kiss over the freckles,

"Dean, wake up." She gave his head a very gentle jostle.

"Dean" her lips slid tenderly along the strong line of his jaw. Secret caresses he would never know about, and that she would pretend had never happened.

"Come on Dean. I need you to wake up. I can't do anything for either of us, while you're still on top of me." Hearing those words, and their suggestive ulterior meaning echo aloud, Reggie blushed and gave Dean another, slightly less gentle, shake.

"Dean, it's time to wake up. Now!"


	51. Chapter 51

Author's Note: I have to admit, I kinda like this chapter. They're growing together, driving each other crazy and pushing all the wrong buttons, and having to deal with it all. Find ways to overcome all the problems they've made for themselves and each other. Sigh, my babies are growing up and positively leaping off the page. I swear, they've become so distinct I feel like I'm barely involved anymore. They've got the bit in their teeth and are just dragging me along for the ride. Anyway, ignore my sentimentality over a couple of fictional characters. Happy Reading.

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Somewhere in the distance, Dean could hear Reggie calling his name. There was a soft urgency in her voice that made him struggle against the warm, comforting cocoon of blackness that threatened to swallow him again. He lay still and tried to orient himself. His head felt like someone had driven a spike into the base of his skull and up into his brain, but other than that, he had to admit, the rest of him felt pretty good. He was sprawled over something soft and warm and……generously curved in all the right places. He felt his body respond hungrily to the hot lure of what was undoubtedly a supple, yielding female body beneath his own. His eyes fluttered open. The eyes looking back had pupils dilated so fully there was only a small ring of the iris left showing, but the unique, amber bronze colour of the perimeter told him they could only belong to one person.

"Reggie?"

His mind was trying to reason out why they were lying on the cold winter ground, her pinned beneath him, their faces so close together he was breathing her breath. His body didn't care. From that perspective, things were perfect. This was exactly where he wanted her, had been wanting her, since practically the first time he'd laid eyes on her. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. It was dangerously close to his. He would barely have to dip his head a fraction of an inch, to capture it with his own.

The invitation, the seduction of those flushed, slightly parted pink lips was only heightened by the innocence, the lack of artifice, in her provocative sprawl beneath him, the uncalculated, even unintentional, glow of desire in her eyes, the unconscious offering of the ripe perfection of her mouth. It seemed as though he had wanted her forever. It would be so easy, to lean in and to take, to end what seemed like an eternity of desire so intense, the edges blurred into pain. To drown in her before his mind caught up with his body, and smothered the torrid, half-conscious ferocity of his passion in cold reason, in restraint, in duty. He knew beyond doubt, that if he touched her now, she would come to him, hotter even than his dreams. He wanted her until it was agony not to have her, and to hell with the consequences.

Reggie felt Dean wake up. Felt his body change against her, growing hard. His eyes opened and she found she could barely breath, relief and desire coursing through her equally when she saw the life there, and the hot, dark craving that kindled emerald flames. Dean woke up wanting her. She was suddenly aware, as she hadn't been before, of the hard, muscled wall of his chest, and the sleek, warm length of his torso pressing against her, pressing into her, of the hollow ache where he lay intimately between her legs. When his gaze fell to her mouth she forgot about breathing entirely.

He was so close. All she would have to do was lift her head, and they could both forget, lose the last few days, all the fear and the pain, in the rising swell of need. She knew that it would be strong enough, hot enough, to burn away the hesitation and doubt. A fierce, reckless hunger speared through her. She knew that he could make her feel alive, take away the fear and the cold. Before she could do anything, act on desire and temptation, he spoke her name, a single, rough syllable ground out in that husky, honey over gravel kind of voice, and shifted his weight against her.

There was no thought involved, her reaction was pure, animal instinct.

Her hips arched up and into him helplessly, as she dragged herself slowly over his growing erection, the rest of her body bowing up as well, to stroke against him in a primal, all over kind of caress. She twisted slowly, caught in a vice of a potent, primitive, adrenaline-infused desire, rubbing herself against him.

"OH. MY. GOD!"

Dean's breath exploded out of his body, agonized arousal in every syllable, as he felt the soft heat of her sliding against him with a sweet, torturous friction.

His head dropped to the side, his forehead resting against the cool grass, his harsh breath hot on Reggie's neck, as he fought to keep control. The rest of the night's events were spilling back to him now. The ritual, the ghost, and whatever she'd had to do to save both their asses after he'd gotten himself K.O.'d. The knowledge that she'd been defenseless, alone again, saving him, again, was like ice in his veins.

She must have been scared, angry, and God only knew what else. What was happening now, it was a normal, natural, human reaction to life-threatening stress. She'd put up with a lot of it over the last couple of days, and this was her body's way of dealing with it. It was programmed into the genes, when in doubt, fall back on biological imperative, mate.

He couldn't take advantage, as much as he might want to. Pretty soon, she'd realize that this was not what she wanted, and it was going to be as embarrassing and uncomfortable as hell for both of them.

"Reggie" he began again, only to be cut of by her little gasp of horrified shock.

"OmygoohmygodohmygodomygodOHMYGOD!"

He felt her hands fly to her face, saw the stunned dismay there, and figured the moment had passed.

"Look" he said, but his explanation was cut short by the ragged moan she ripped from him, as she began to thrash again, this time, trying desperately to get away, to escape the mortifying, visceral reality of her own secret wants as they were thrown in his face, and her own, by her treacherous body.

Regardless, her movements once again had her body sliding and rubbing against his. His hands dug into her hips.

"Stay still will you!" he hissed.

She froze beneath him.

Reggie could hear the ragged, tearing sound Dean's breath made as he struggled for air. She could feel the hard, ready heat of him, and the fierce, painful tension tightening his body, that signaled his restraint. Who knew Dean Winchester would be a gentleman? Refuse to take what she had so wantonly offered, what he so clearly wanted. She lay perfectly still beneath him, as he curbed the animal lust that tore though him with an iron will. When he propped himself on his elbows to look at her, she turned her head away. God, she wanted to drown in her own shame. She's practically thrown herself at him for God's Sake!

When he spoke she listened in still, humiliated silence.

"Reggie. Listen to me. This was…..awkward." He could see the sheen of tears in her eyes, and he tried to make it better because that was the deal after all. They were supposed to help each other diffuse exactly this kind of situation, before it got out of control. So he would tell her it was nothing, that it was hormones and brain chemistry and nothing else. And it would be mostly true, at least as far as she was concerned.

"But, you can't be so rough on yourself. It's just, nature, that's all. You're not used to it, all the adrenaline, all that fear. It's called aftermath, and what just happened, it's just our bodies trying to deal with all that built up tension and energy. It's just because, well" he gave her a rueful half-smile,

"I almost got killed, you know, again, and left you to deal with the bad guy and save my sorry ass."

And that got a response. Reggie felt the anger sweep through her and it was easier, simpler, to embrace it and ride the wave of fury away from her earlier embarrassment. As usual, it was all his bloody fault. If he hadn't been playing hero, trying to protect her, this would never have happened. He wouldn't have been knocked out, and she wouldn't have had to lay trapped beneath his body, baring the secret agonies of her soul to a psychotic ghost in order to save them!

"Goddamn you!"

He winced in surprise and pain when her small fist bounced sharply off his shoulder.

"Hey" he snapped, finally levering himself to his feet and dragging her up with him, pressing a hand to his spinning head.

"What the hell was that for?!"

Whirling away from him she stalked back toward the car, spinning agitatedly to face him when she neared it, stabbing a finger in his direction.

"You macho man. I just. Argh! Why can't you just learn to trust me enough to take care of myself!"

"Oh well, that's gratitude for you" he snapped back, striding toward her,

"I can tell you from personal experience, getting broadsided by that ladder was no picnic. But then, maybe you'd have preferred to be the one flat on your back!"

"I was!" she roared.

"We were laid out like fucking willing sacrifices, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it!" To emphasize her point, she leaned down to snatch his knife from the ground and slapped it angrily into his hand.

Dean felt the back of his head gingerly, grimacing as he felt the blood, and at her words. The was a dull, steady throbbing behind his eyes that he knew from experience was going to get worse before it got better. He looked at Reggie tiredly. He knew it must have been awful for her. It wasn't in what she said, it was in the tortured, heated golden spitfire of resentment in her eyes.

"What did you want me to do?" he demanded.

"Just stand back and let you take the goddamned hit?"

She rolled her eyes,

"How bout a simple warning smart ass. You know, something real basic, along the lines of 'Reggie, duck!'"

Dean planted his hands on the hood of the Impala and leaned towards her.

"There wasn't time" he said quietly,

"And I guess I didn't really think about it. You were going to get hurt…" he shrugged uncomfortably and turned away.

_And I couldn't let that happen. _

Reggie heard the unspoken words as clearly as if he had said them aloud. The fight went out of her as she surfaced enough from the boiling, swirling sea of her own emotions to sense the waves of frustration, confusion and guilt that were washing through Dean.

"Bugger" she sighed, leaning back against the car.

"Yeah" he agreed, doing the same.

For a moment they just sat there, taking stock of their wounds, physical, emotional, mental. It had been a helluva night.

"Well, at least we fried that sucker" said Dean after a moment, suddenly turning to grin at her. He could alwyas take pleasure in a job well done.

Reggie could never help but grin back, when he smiled at her like that. All cheek and arrogance.

"You mean Sam fried it."

Dean smacked a palm against his forehead,

"Shit, were's my phone, he's probably going nuts."

Reggie nodded in agreement,

"Yeah. We'd better call and let him know we're alright."

Dean raised an eyebrow,

"Are we, alright?" he asked the loaded question.

He sounded so apprehensive, Reggie laughed. She didn't know what it was about him, all the pent up anger and fear, even the awkwardness, somehow, he just always managed to drain it out of her. They had a deal after all. They were supposed to help each other get over this stuff, and that meant letting it go. Of course, she also knew that he'd also most likely be the one to treat her to her next round of angst, not to mention sexual temptation, but, for now, miraculously, things really were alright. It shivered through her, the knowledge that they had just given birth to some new level of understanding between them. And that knowledge made her feel, maybe for the first time, safe, content even.

"Yeah, we're okay", she shared the news with him, saw the comprehension in his eyes.

Dean smiled down at her as she looked up at him laughingly. All he could think was that this was one hell of a woman. She taken hit after hit this week, and damned if she didn't just keep coming. It was one of the few qualities Dean genuinely admired in others. Gumption, his father would have called it, and Reggie Thorpington had it in spades. And besides, he had to admit, he just plain liked her. Her sweetness, and her fire, and her fierce loyalty. And it was with those thoughts running through his head, that he acted on an impulse he would otherwise have viciously squashed. Reaching out, before he even really knew he was doing it, he wrapped a hand around her neck and yanked her forward, placing a smacking, enthusiastic kiss on her smiling mouth, and pulling back just as quickly.

It was the ultimate irony, that their first kiss would have nothing to do with sex.

Still, the chaste, and almost companionable nature of the exuberant caress didn't mean that Reggie didn't fell the impact all the way to her toes. But she didn't have time to work herself into a proper state over it, because Dean was already long gone, walking around the other side of the car to gather his cell phone from the ground, tossing a casual, friendly wink at her over his shoulder as he went.

_It's nothing_ she told her self. _It's just his way of expressing a little relief at being alive, his way of saying thanks. It doesn't mean anything._

"Hey" his voice made her jump.

"Hmmmm?" she responded.

"One more thing I gotta do before we go" he said, strolling purposefully towards the blooming apple tree.

She frowned a little as she watched him, he might sound fine, but as usual, with Dean, it was hard to tell where the bravado ended and the truth took over. He wasn't moving very well. Not that he'd ever admit it, but she'd bet that damn ghost had really rung his bell, from behind she could clearly see where the blood had run profusely from his wound down the back of his neck.

Reaching up, he snagged a juicy red fruit from a leafy bough, and, walking back towards her, took a hefty bite. Giving her a cocky grin around his mouthful, he swallowed and said with scathing satisfaction,

"Bite me my ass."

Reggie couldn't stop the smile that spread across her features.

"C'mon. We'd better go and get poor Sam, he's probably frantic."

"Right" he nodded, and held out the apple as they climbed into the car.

"Want some?" he offered.

Reggie looked at him, looked at the outstretched hand and the ripe, red apple, and thought that if Satan had looked like Dean, Eve wouldn't have needed Adam to commit her original sin. Still smiling she shook her head,

"No. I don't think it's a good idea" she murmured. For a moment his brow furrowed in confusion, but then his eyes lit with ironic understanding.

"Nah" he agreed, "Probably not."


	52. Chapter 52

Author's Note: Hope you enjoy.

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The motel room was, as always, small, cramped, musty, and less than spotless. But then, they always were. This place would do as well as any other, and it had been the closest. Sam stumbled through the open door, not because he was supporting his brother's weight, but because Dean was consistently attempting to throw off his assisting arm.

Sam!" he snapped for the millionth time,

"I'm fine. Get off me!" he exclaimed, finally ducking free of the encircling limb and plunking down onto the first available bed unceremoniously.

Reggie brought up the rear behind the two brothers, loaded down with their gear, her exhausted arms and sore back aching under the burden, and her lips twitching helplessly as she listened to the familiar sound of the brothers' bickering. She focused in on it, trying to fend off the persistent ripples of old despair which, having been awakened by her encounter with Ronnie, refused to sink back into the dark, seething sea of disquiet which brooded threateningly in her mind. Usually she could drown the humming vibrations which rose now, a discordant harmony of warning. Curb the shadow of her past, keep the stain from spreading and colouring her vision. But she was having trouble silencing the doubt and the fear that had risen to encircle the tiny light that Dean's kiss had sparked. As always, she faltered, hearing the voice of mistrust, her father in her head. Misgivings rose to strangle her hope, there would be no happy endings here. They were a cruel fantasy. There was only the heady, destructive promise of the whirlwind, a firestorm of passion that would devour and destroy her, or a solitary cell inside her own mind. That certainty nipped at her vulnerable heart, herding it back into its cage, a voluntary isolation with bars of suspicion and fear. She couldn't stop herself from caring, but she could stop it from being more than that. Or at least, as long as she clung to that belief, she could stay sane.

She heard Sam launch into yet another lecture about carelessness and overconfidence, and not having the sense God gave a turnip, and shouldn't Dean at least know when it was time to admit he was injured and needed a little help. Reggie towed the bags into the room and dropped them, keeping quiet. She knew Sam wasn't really angry. He'd been scared to death, and completely unable to do a damn thing, hamstrung, stranded at the cemetery, left to imagine the worst after the silent phone call. His mad was just a cover, as her own earlier outburst had been. Even if it hadn't been a classic human behaviour, to cover concern with contempt, she could feel the worry and the relief buried behind his ire. She sank gratefully into a chair, and watched the fun. Sam was trying to get a good look at Dean's head wound, and having absolutely no luck, because the splitting headache that begun to throb behind Dean's eyes the moment he woke up in the orchard, and grown steadily since then, made him one ornery sonofabitch. And Sam told him so in no uncertain terms, as Dean continued to complain and swat at Sam's gentle hands, whenever they got near the nasty gash that slashed across the back of his head, just above where his dark blond hair met the skin of his neck.

"Damnit Dean!" Sam was out of patience,

"You could have a concussion you stubborn ass! And since we can't take you to the hospital, you've got to let me have a look."

Dean growled at his brother and bared his teeth against the pain. At first, as always, the adrenaline, not to mention the sexual tension, had helped to keep the agony at bay, but that hadn't lasted long. By the time they'd reached the cemetery, and a near apoplectic Sam, his vision was beginning to blurr. Now it felt as though there were knives in his eyes, and razor sharp shards of glass rolling around in his skull. Every movement caused their wicked, biting edges to slice into him anew.

"Dean", Reggie's voice soothed rather than agitated his sore head.

"Let me see" she commanded, coming up beside the bed. Her golden eyes locked onto his hazel-green ones, and held.

Her gift wasn't much use against physical pain, but sometimes she could help. The mental, emotional and physical were closely enough entangled in the complex entities that are human beings, that sometimes she could affect one by affecting the other.

But she didn't just jump right in, she was waiting, asking, for his permission first.

He didn't have to nod, she could feel him open, just a tiny chink in the armour, but it was enough. She slipped in, deliberately blind to the dark, harrowing corridors in his mind and heart that she had no doubt led to places and feelings he would rather neither she, nor anyone else, explored. Instead she focused on the nexus of tension and strain that was tightening the web of muscles in his skull, and squeezing the nerves beneath in a merciless vice. It was a simple thing, to smooth away that stress, to ease the last tingling vestiges of guilt and worry that lingered after the hunt. She felt him sigh and relax.

Stepping back, she'd never even touched him, Reggie gave Sam a tired smile.

"Go ahead and have a look" she told him,

"He's alright now."

Sam raised his eyebrows, wondering what in the hell had just passed silently between Reggie and Dean, and what in the hell had occurred in the orchard that would make his oh so cautious brother trust her enough to use her gift on him. But he didn't complain, Dean undoubtedly looked more at ease, and he didn't protest, well, not seriously, when Sam finally brushed aside his hair and got a good look at the gash.

It was long and pretty deep, and had bled like a bitch, as all head wounds did, soaking the back of Dean's grey tee-shirt, but all in all, it wasn't as bad as he had feared. It had already clotted and scabbed over, which was a damn good thing because having to dress the awkwardly placed wound on an unwilling Dean was not the way he'd planned to spend his evening. Sam silently thanked God, Dean had always been a quick healer. Grabbing his flash light, he shone the beam directly into Dean's eyes, dodging the blow his brother aimed at him and wincing at his blistering curses, but also smiling with relief, when both of Dean's pupils contracted smoothly and evenly against the harsh light.

"Sam, you bastard" moaned Dean, covering his abused eyes with his hands.

"Sorry Dude" said Sam,

"Had to be sure. As it is, we should probably keep tabs on you tonight. Just to be safe."

"Whatever" mumbled Dean, tugging his ruined shirt over his head and toeing off his shoes. With out bothering to remove anymore of his clothing, he lay back in the bed and tugged the covers over his tired, battered, body.

Reggie rolled her sore shoulders and gave Sam a small smile,

"I'll take first watch" she told him, settling fully clothed on the bed, face to face with the already sleeping Dean.

Sam nodded. It was nice, to know there was someone else out there who cared about his mule-headed brother the way Dean deserved.

Dean's wound was unpleasant, but hardly enough to keep him down or interfere with the regular routine of his nightly vigil so, when he awoke an our later with his head still screaming, he was hardly surprised. He took deep breaths and tired to ease away some of the painful tension in his head by very deliberately relaxing each muscle in his body, beginning with those in his jaw and neck, and moving slowly downward, until he reached his feet. It sort of worked. It gave him enough relief to allow him to open his eyes an do a quick survey of the room. He could hear Sam snoring behind him, and Reggie was stretched out on her side across from him, head pillowed on her folded hands, her still clothed body lying on top of the covers, her deep, even breathing signifying her exhaustion. His hand had lifted in an automatic gesture, reaching for her, when the sudden chirp of Sam's watch, lying beside her head, made his whole body jerk with surprise and sharp, stabbing needles of pain streaked through his skull.

Grumpily, he snatched up the offending appliance and silenced it. Sam shifted and muttered in the bed behind him, before settling once more into sleep. In front of him, Reggie's eyelids fluttered, as her body fought to surface from the sleep it so badly needed.

"Hey" he murmured, his deep voice a soothing rumble,

"Go back to sleep honey. You need it."

"Hurt. Gotta keep an eye on you" she mumbled, eyes opening just a fraction, her body twitching.

"It's okay." He quieted her.

"I'm okay", and taking advantage of her semi-conscious state, he reached out to trace a finger across the silken skin of her cheek. He told himself he only meant the touch to clam her, help to ease her back into sleep.

It was a lie. He had never had someone, well, someone other than Sam, who cared about him. But here she was, his little warrior, doing her best to keep an eye on him, even though she'd already drained herself doing God knows what to save him earlier that night.

The small caress had her sighing, and turning her head to follow the warmth of his stroking fingertips.

It was only a small thing, but it made an uncomfortable fist of need clench in his belly. A need that he was afraid had become so much more complicated, involved wanting so much more, than just the physical.

Opening his hand, Dean allowed himself the luxury of cupping her face in his palm, of seeing those golden eyes watching him, for once, while he touched her, even though her heavy-lidded look told him she wasn't really awake, that she was caught somewhere between dream and reality. And he couldn't help himself, he was going to take advantage, just a little bit.

Shifting in the bed to bring them closer together, he let the hand holding her face slide around the back of her head, urging her toward him with gentle pressure. As always, she came easily. The difference being that this time, he could really see her, drown himself in the amber depths of her eyes while she came to him. His big, hard hands swept over her, molding her against the lower half of his body, and caressing their way up her back. One banded around her waist and the other cradled her neck. His thumb brushed over her full lower lip. She murmured incoherently, her voice husky with drowsy arousal, and his heart leapt painfully, when she reached for him in turn. She settled fully against him, core to core, heat to heat, when she instinctively made room for him between her legs. His tortured groan was almost silent, threading its way between teeth clenched tightly against the brutal onslaught of lust. Her movements were languid, maddeningly slow but seeking, seeking him. His heat. His lips. He kept his eyes open, locked onto hers, those dreamy, half-lidded, shimmering pools of gold, when her mouth finally whispered over his.

It was barely anything, the barest brush of her lips, but still his body reacted as though a high voltage current had just been run though it. Every nerve ending sparked painfully to life. Somewhere in the back of his head, a little voice was telling him that this was wrong, wrong, wrong. That he was hurt and not thinking clearly, and that he was still all charged up over what had happened in the orchard. Still aching with the knowledge that this woman could take him places no other would. Places he had to admit, he wasn't sure he wanted to go. Wasn't sure he could allow himself to go. And that he was the worst kind of bastard, to exploit her when she was essentially unaware. But right now, in this minute, he was beyond caring. After all, he wasn't kissing her, she was kissing him.

_Same difference_, said the voice. _It's the same as this afternoon, she still doesn't know what she's doing. And we both know that if she was really awake, she wouldn't be doing it!_ But Dean ignored it. When Reggie's mouth returned, her lips rubbing slowly over his a second time, her hands curling invitingly against the hot, bare skin of his chest, he gave her what he knew she wanted. Opening his mouth, Dean caught the full, soft flesh of her lower lip gently between his teeth, biting her with fierce restraint. She let out a tiny moan at the contact. Her hands rose, her fingertips running up his stubbled jaw and sinking deeply into his thick, soft hair. Not even the small tug and answering flicker of pain from his wounded scalp could distract him. His entire being was focused on the place where his mouth was tangled with hers. Dragging teeth and tongue gently across her captive flesh he released her, tightening his grip and bending his head to take her mouth more fully.

And then she said his name.

"Dean."

The little sigh, breathed against his lips, stopped him cold.

_What in the hell was he doing?!_

He couldn't have her when she was awake, so he figured he'd ambush her when she was asleep? Have her so wound up that by the time she awoke, she wouldn't be able to say no?

No. He fended off the blistering attack of his conscience with the honest admission that it hadn't been that calculated, he hadn't planned a seduction, but had rather, had been seduced. By the sweet, chaste kiss of an unknowing slip of a girl who didn't really want him. He was tired, and, though he hated to admit it, somehow defenseless against her. There was a promise of possibilities with her, of what could never be, that he found intoxicating. It was also why she was so dangerous to him. She tested his self-control like no other woman he had ever known. He couldn't sleep with her, no matter how much he wanted to, because that's not all it would be.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her, she had fallen fully back into sleep while he wagged his inner war, and was still curled trustingly in his arms. And that was the biggest obstacle right there. Her trust. It was like a noose around his neck, because he'd rather die than have her look at him as she had those first few weeks. Like he was dangerous, some kind of monster.

It was hearing his name on her lips that had ultimately stopped him. And no matter what other excuses he gave, now that he'd broken free from the heat of the moment, it hadn't been his logic, which knew all the reasons why this would be bad, for him, for her, nor his sterling morals, that had stopped him.

When she'd said it, that little breathy "Dean", he'd heard the pulse of desire in her voice, and the sleep. And the truth was, if he ever lost his mind enough to allow this thing to happen between them, he wanted her wide awake and aware, of him and of herself, when she said his name like that. He wanted to see it clearly in her golden eyes, not only her desire, but understanding. He wanted her to sigh and moan and scream, his name, _knowing_, that it was he who touched her, who made her feel that. And he wanted her to want him enough to come to him hot and _willing, _to abandon herself to him. To trust him completely. And he knew that there was something that held her back, that same something, a darkness, that he'd caught a flash of in her eyes tonight. The beautiful, sensual, sexual woman Dean sensed within her, the woman who, asleep, promised him fire hot enough to singe his soul, whose body sang a siren's song that ravaged his senses and beckoned him, tempted him, unmercifully, was somehow imprisoned inside the cool shell Reggie presented to the world. And he wanted to know why.

Yeah, somewhere along the line, it had become about way more than just sex.

"Fuck!" Dean whispered, and with his heartfelt curse echoing in the still room, he lay his head on the pillow and tried to sleep, Reggie still hugged tightly in his arms because, in spite of everything, he just couldn't seem to let her go. It scared the hell out of him.

Further Note: I know I am a bitch to keep teasing you like this, but it's part of thier journey. I'm sorry, don't hate me.


	53. Chapter 53

Author's Note: This chapter was an emotionally draining ordeal to write, I hope y'all think it was worth it. Happy Reading.

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Reggie fought her way through the thick cobwebs of sleep and the tantalizing remnants of warm dreams toward wakefulness. Opening her eyes, she was appalled to see that the sun was fully up, and she was not only still in bed, she'd slept the entire night through. Muzzily, she berated her body, which was still sluggish and rebellious, wanting nothing more than to relax back into the arms of the deep, magical dream that she knew she'd had the previous night. The kind that you could only remember well enough to heartily regret not being able to recall the details.

She shouldn't still be tired. She'd slept like the dead. But she was, God, lately, she was always tired. _Well_, she reminded herself, _Yesterday, you did battle an enraged, homicidal ghost, and go through the emotional wringer of unleashing all your personal demons. Not to mention, that little kiss and cry episode with Dean. The man is going to be the death of you._ Reggie shook her head to clear it of the unpleasant thoughts, and looked around for her charge, who was no longer sleeping in the bed beside her, despite the fact that he was injured.

Dean sat in the scruffy armchair that was crammed against the back wall of the motel room, next to the small, stained table, and watched Reggie wake up. She had this thing were she really needed darkness to sleep. He'd noticed that, as soon as the sun came up, she'd semi-wake and bury her head between two pillows, to block out the offending rays. When they'd first hit the road her hair had been shorter, and as a result of her pillow sandwich, was routinely squished into a messy little Mohawk that he'd found adorable. She was no less alluring now that the lose ringlets had begun to grow out. Her skin was warm and flushed with sleep, her hair a tangle of sassy, golden-bronze curls which framed her face in glorious disarray. Her large, tawny, almond-shaped eyes were soft and unguarded as she cast them around the room, looking he knew, for him. When they at lit last on his large, dark shape in the corner, a small smile curved her mouth.

"Hey there cowboy, how're we feeling this morning" she asked. Her own hand going to the back of her head, indicating the place where he had been injured the night before.

"I'm okay" came the easy response.

She nodded,

"I'm sorry about last night. I guess I didn't turn out to be much of a nurse. Although, I can't for the life of me figure out why Sam's watch didn't wake me up. I set the alarm and stuck the darn thing right next to my ear". She lifted the covers and pillows, searching for the AWOL Timex amidst the tangled sheets.

"Over here" said Dean, holding up the watch.

"And don't worry about it. I turned it off. We both needed the rest."

Reggie's eyes narrowed, there was something in his tone that implied that perhaps she'd needed it more than he. But of course, he didn't know anything about the painful memories and fears that she'd re-lived the previous night, that had so drained her energy, and she had no intention of telling him.

Dean's next words said he had other ideas.

Rising from the chair, he moved out of the shadowed corner and into the sunlight, his hazel-green eyes with their golden centre capturing her full attention. There was a speculation in them that made her nervous.

She fidgeted where she sat in the bed. She always got uneasy when Dean stared at her, but this was different. For once, she understood how he must have felt when he knew she'd been sensing his emotions. She had the distinct impression that Dean knew something about the previous evening's battle, that she didn't want him to.

"I've been thinking" his voice was deep, his gaze, inscrutable,

"About how exactly, you managed to keep good ol' Ronnie off our backs long enough to get to my phone and call Sam."

Reggie dropped her eyes, unable to meet those probing green orbs.

"And I was thinking that, more than anything else, more even than death, what Ronnie wanted was to make people feel pain. _Real, animal_ pain. Like the kind he felt."

_Damn him anyway_! Thought Reggie with irritation. Of course he'd figured it out, it was, after all, his job. To assess what the purpose of an angry spirit was, to discover its weaknesses and exploit them, and he was good at it. But she didn't want to re-open the tightly sealed box of anguish in her heart. She knew that he must have been extremely uncomfortable, doing this, trying to talk to her about it. In fact, she could feel his squirming unease, but she could also sense how responsible he felt. How he felt it was his fault she'd gone through, whatever she'd gone through, and he wanted to know what she'd had to do to help him. Of course he couldn't know that it wasn't really her run in with Ronnie that was the problem. That the demons and wraiths of her past pain haunted her daily. Still kept her from so many facets of the life she wished for herself. That they played a very large part in keeping her from him.

Dean's voice was low, harsh with guilt and anger, when he spoke again.

"What did you do Reggie? What did you give him, to satisfy his need for pain?"

She could feel the guilt, it was a white hot inferno inside him. His drive to know what he had cost her came from a dark place of self-loathing and destruction. He wanted to know so he could punish himself with the knowledge of her sacrifice. And she wasn't going to let him. He'd have to learn that he wasn't the only one in this fight. He wasn't the only one who could suffer for the cause, for the people he cared about. Because that was how he saw it. He thought nothing of sacrificing himself, of twisting and maiming and exposing his own soul. Of crippling it, to say nothing of his body, if only those he loved remained safe. But his very nature rebelled against the idea of allowing others to be hurt.

He'd shouldered the burden of saving the whole goddamn world, and it was supposed to be a solo mission. No wonder Dean, at his core, had so little self esteem. How could anyone live up to the standards he set for himself. In his eyes every failed hunt, every victim, every casualty, and every wound sustained by anyone, let alone by someone he genuinely cared about, was his fault. In his own eyes he was a failure, a disappointment, a murderer even. And right now, he felt like what had happened to her was his fault, and maybe she'd contributed to that last night in the orchard. She sighed, she was going to have to work on that.

Dean waited patiently for Reggie to answer him. He'd spent the early morning hours with her curled, exhausted and asleep in is arms, examining the deep circles of fatigue under her eyes, and the pallor of her fair skin. And he'd wondered what she'd been forced to do, that could bring her to such a state of weakness. In fact, lately, he was wondering about a lot of things. He knew that, though she masked it well, there was a lot of darkness and a great deal of pain buried behind those beautiful eyes. He'd never forget that night in the Impala when she'd broken, just enough for him to glimpse the coiling darkness that choked out so much of her light. His own wounded soul sensed the matching shadows in hers.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered what could have happened in her past that would scar her so cruelly. What could have happened that would make her so afraid of him. It had occurred to him that his sudden interest in the personal pain of someone who wasn't Sam was rather unusual. But he chose not to think about that. All he knew was, he was tired of watching Reggie silently, almost inconspicuously, suffer the lash of some invisible torment. It went against the grain to sit idly by and do nothing. He wanted to know what in the hell was going on with her, and come hell or high water, when she told him, and she would tell him, he was going to fix it.

Dean was sharply observant by nature. He'd noticed long ago that Reggie was generally uninterested in men. He'd never seen her give so much as the time of day to a strange man, she'd spent a good deal of her time sincerely wary of him, and she very carefully and deliberately treated Sam like a brother.

_She never talks about her father._

The possible implications of that observation made him sick to his stomach. To think that the man entrusted with protecting an nurturing a soul as special as Reggie's, had battered and abused her generous spirit instead. And somehow, he was sure that was part of it. Whatever misgivings either he or Sam might harbour about their father and the choices he had made while raising them, his love for them had never been in question, and above all, the brothers had always known one thing. No matter what horrors lurked in the dark, they were safe with their father. Silently, Dean wondered who had made Reggie feel safe. If she ever really had.

When she still didn't answer him, Dean drew a deep breath,

"Reggie, why don't you ever talk about your father?"

Her head whipped up, the snap of her neck almost painfully swift. He saw the fleeting shock, the fear in her eyes, and knew he was right, though she smothered the instinctive response with practiced speed and ease. She blinked, and the ragging storm was gone, her gaze was calm, easy, even mildly curious.

Reggie fought frantically for control, for nonchalance. He'd thrown her. Here she'd been preparing to attack some of his demons, and instead, he'd completely turned the tables on her. How in the hell did he know, how had he guessed? She knew from long years of experience that she wasn't obvious, that she hid it well. Too well. No one, absolutely no one, knew the whole truth of her painful childhood and her slow battle back into sanity and self-esteem. And she wasn't about to start sharing now, not with a man who could be no more to her than a casual friend. Who would allow himself to be no more, whom she was far to afraid to trust completely mostly because, for the first time in her life, she was truly tempted to lean on the strength of another. For the first time she wondered if she had met someone strong enough to bear the weight.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her tone all innocent confusion.

His gaze was steady.

"When you first joined us, you and Sam spent a lot of time talking about your family. You almost never mentioned your father. I remember even then, thinking that was strange."

He shrugged,

"Probably because my father is the first person I would think of."

She shook her head at him, her eyes full of surprise, and he detected just a hint of defiance.

"I'm not sure what you mean Dean. What would you like to know about him?"

He shrugged, throwing out his arms,

"Anything" he challenged her.

He had to admit, he hadn't thought she would out and out lie to him. She had to know that it wasn't going to work, that he knew, had had his suspicions confirmed by her reaction, as brief as it had been, but he conceded that she was good. A much more consummate actress than he'd expected. Her easy denial, her innocent protestations, they were almost enough to make him believe he'd imagined it. That quaver, that flash of pain. Almost, but she couldn't fool him. Dean had made a career of deception. It was as natural to him as breathing. _You can't con a con sweetheart_, he advised her silently, as she sat cross-legged on the bed, studying him.

Reggie wasn't lying. There was a difference between a lie and an untruth. A lie was something you told, an untruth was something you lived. And this particular deception was one she practiced on herself as much as on anyone else. It was what allowed her to go on, it was the wall that confined the crippling reality of her past to a nebulous psychological plane of ambiguity. When she was away from him, from that life, immersed in the new circumstances, new places, new people, new world, the new life, she fought for and won, she could function normally, at least on the surface, because if no one else knew, in a way, neither did she. All that pain and rage and fear, it faded into some kind of echo, the distant voice of a nightmare that belonged to someone else. It only reared its ugly head if she was directly forced to confront it. Unfortunately, lately, she had been made to just that, regularly.

She couldn't deal with Dean and the feelings he aroused in her without falling back into that truth. But she wanted to, oh how she wanted to. She couldn't let him know, didn't want to make that a real part of their relationship. It was something she clung to, a belief that if she confined the truth, the blight of it, to herself, she could stop it from tainting what she had with others. She knew that it was hardly a perfect coping mechanism, but it was functional. No, it did not exactly allow her to have normal relationships with people, and yes, the cracks showed rather more glaringly, when presented with a man like Dean Winchester, but at least she could have relationships. Even if their scope was limited to friendships, that was far better than the loneliness of her youth. She would just have to adjust, adapt. She was good at it. All she had to do was figure out how to keep Dean at arms length, without completely cutting him off.

That was how she would normally have dealt with some one who so threatened her carefully won control. But circumstances dictated that she couldn't just walk away, and, truth be told, she was in too deep now, cared to much, for that. But she could keep her distance, and preserve some vestiges of what they might have had. It was the saddest, most frustrating result of her childhood. If she hadn't been able to see the possibilities, it wouldn't have been so painful, but she could. She could always see, and that made her hate herself, for never being brave enough to take the chance. But she didn't want Dean to know how weak she was. She didn't want him to look at her differently, didn't want him to offer her comfort, mostly because she was afraid she might take him up on it. And that would spell disaster. Her whole life was balanced on a razor's edge, somewhere between what she wanted to be true, and the self-deception that allowed her to obtain some fraction of that coveted reality. Deceiving others was really a way of protecting them, and herself.

She couldn't face some one who knew the truth, who could see her cowardice, and her scars. It would change what was between them, and she didn't want to lose him, so if she were going to protect what she and Dean had, she needed to end this now. This disturbing and uncharacteristic new desire of his to know. In her head, she began to filter rapidly through her options, carefully selecting her tools, building a personalized, anit-Dean web of deception. A little confusion, some irritation, some defensiveness, just enough to be convincing, and a suitably altered version of reality would make for a potent cocktail, and if that didn't work, she had a fail safe. Shut down. It was a cruel card to play, but she had come to know Dean well enough to understand that, if she shut him out, he'd get mad, and then, he'd get scared. And then, he would back off. It was her only choice.

Reggie gave a very genuine smile, and started talking,

"Well, his name is Daniel, William Thorpington. He grew up four blocks from my mother and was a good friend of her eldest brother, my Uncle Theo. He comes from money but didn't get along with his father and got himself disinherited just after he married my mother. S'okay though, somehow, my paternal grandparents were still a part of my life. My Mom and Grandma made sure of that. Dad's an electrical engineer at the power plant near where I grew up in New York."

He was still standing there, regarding her silently.

She raised her eyebrows

"More?" she asked, injecting her voice with just the right amount of mockery, just the tiniest hint of irritation, to convey how absurd the whole process was. To convince him of the ridiculousness of his persistence and to make him feel just a bit unsure, to undermine some of that confidence, which would in turn allow stronger uncertainty and eventually embarrassment to creep in, effectively killing his inquiry. At least that's how it should have worked. Dean stared her down and nodded his head for her to continue.

She took a deep breath,

"Well. When I was little my sister and I were both kinda tomboys. So we liked to do stuff with him. You know, stick our heads under the hood of the car. Wrestle." Her smile was just a shade to brittle to be convincing, when she launched into one of her four stock, "happy family" stories. They were built around the handful of happy memories she did have of her father. Though she knew that they were as much a warped product of her desperate childish imagination as reality. Still, usually, they did the job.

"He was the Mean Green Giant, and we were the Sweetheart Sisters. We used to just go nuts. Jumping and crashing around in the family room. I once almost killed him, came down with both knees right in the kidney." Her laugh was warm and her head-shake the perfect facsimile of sentimental affection.

He still wasn't buying it, but Reggie wasn't backing down.

She busied herself getting out of the bed and straightening the covers, yanking at them just a little to forcefully, as she continued in a bright voice. Telling stories about fishing trips and her first tool kit, a Christmas Present. About summers at the lake and the patented Thropington Thriller, a specially designed move where Daniel would throw both his daughters backwards into summersaults, sending them crashing spectacularly into the water.

Another false smile.

"We were real daredevils. Loved that kind of stuff. Right before bed, he would do this thing called, The Plunk. Where he'd lift us up, lying flat on our backs, until our noses almost touched the ceiling, and then drop us onto the mattress. It's like jumping on the bed times a hundred, a real adrenaline rush. Used to make our Mom crazy of course. I mean, it didn't exactly settle us down to sleep but…."

"Reggie" Dean cut off the flow of words.

She spun around to face him, her features still a mask of denial, of congenial remembrance.

He looked deeply into her golden eyes, sensing, but not seeing, her distress.

The offer was quiet, simple.

"I'd like to help. I want to know."

And she shut down on him. The fake glitter went out, leaving her eyes shuttered pools of darkness. It was not the effect he'd hoped to have. But the look on her face was so closed, spoke of such isolation, he knew he had blundered.

"No Dean" her voice held a chilling certainty, "You don't."

And with that, she swept up her things and brushed by him toward the bathroom. His hand caught her arm, just for a moment, but when he turned to look down at her, she was as blank and cold as stone.

"Leave it alone Dean" it was a warning, a demand and a plea all rolled into one.

He had no choice. His hand opened and she walked away from him.


	54. Chapter 54

Hey guys. I'm baaaack! Phew! Only one major paper left and counting. I get to have a life again, horray! Sorry to have disappeared for so long, and at such an inopportune time. Anyway, without further ado, let's see if Dean can't fix his latest mess. Enjoy!

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He had expected there to be ramifications. And, judging by the cold finality in Reggie's voice when she'd shut the bathroom door in his face, he'd expected them to be negative. He'd assumed that, at the very least, they'd return to the careful cat and mouse game that had dominated the early weeks of their acquaintance. Where Reggie would watch him with wary eyes and run for her life if he came within a few feet of her. But that was not what had happened. She ignored it. It was literally as though that uncomfortable morning had never happened. It wasn't as though she was all over him, or had ever touched him with the easy affection she showed to Sam, but, there was no strain either. Dean watched in silent amazement over the next day, while Reggie took denial to a whole new level. However, despite her best efforts, there was now something in the air between them that rang sharply false. The affable, comfortable, casual relationship she was projecting had never existed. There had never been a time when the hovering promise, desire, for more, hadn't lent an edge of tension to even their most basic interactions.

Dean felt it, the death of the possibilities he'd been so bound and determined not to consider, like a blow. He knew what was happening. For the first time, Reggie was treating him just like everyone else. She was kind, she was sweet, she was concerned, in an impersonal, teeth-gnashingly pleasant kind of way. This wasn't, 'what I feel about you scares the bejesus out of me so I'm keeping my distance', or a piqued 'you're such an ass' kind of distance. This was 'I don't care enough to be bothered avoiding you, or even to be angry'. She was gone, suddenly as far beyond his reach as the stars. And Dean didn't like it. Not one little bit. He fought to keep it from showing. It was foolish, ridiculous, he was overeacting, but knowing that didn't ease the blind, desperate, throbbing panic. The loss that squeezed his lungs in a vice of fear until he could barely breath, or the dark shroud that settled over his heart, as though mourning its last change to live rather than just pump blood to limbs that moved through an endless routine of seek and destroy.

Clenching his jaw and clamping down hard on the wheel of the Impala as he drove them away from Houma, Dean told himself it was for the best. He'd been getting in way over his head. Circling far to close to a fire that had already burned him. That he knew could consume him. One that he was doing a piss poor job of avoiding because he couldn't put a leash on his baser desires, no matter how loudly his up-stairs brain told him to. The problem was, even if he knew he could never have anything more, anything real with Reggie, and he did, he knew it. He knew that loving her would destroy who he was, would demand of him things he couldn't give without self-destructing what was left of his soul, he still wanted to go back. Even though they could never share a life, or even their bodies, he wanted to see her smile at him in that nervous, questioning kind of way that was all for him, when she caught him staring at her.

Surely they could at least have that, surely he was due this one small thing. He would gladly take the gift of her friendship, since anything else was impossible. But he was terribly afraid that he had, as he always did, screwed things royally. And he didn't know how to make it better. To tell her that he understood what it meant to have secrets so dark and so defining, that even the possibility of showing someone else that part of you was literally, a fate worse than death. That was how he felt. He wondered what she would think of him if she knew how many lives it had taken, how many people had been lost, in order for him to be standing here today.

But he was pretty sure Reggie's secret was different. He was sure that whatever she was hiding, whatever fatal flaw she seemed so hell bent on concealing, it didn't really belong to her at all, but rather someone else. If she would only trust him enough to let him help. Of course, the irony of the whole situation was not lost on Dean. He of all people should have understood what it meant to live in a world where the shaky outline of reality was defined by what you made people believe, as opposed to what was true. He knew what it was to need that protective cloak of lies, how it kept the truth from eating at you, as well as others. But he wanted to tell her that he could protect her far better than all those walls she had built up around herself, that they were as much her prison as her refuge. But of course, she already knew that, just as he knew it.

As much as he wanted to be the one to save her, she wasn't a princess who'd been locked in a tower by an evil witch. She had willingly closed the door, climbed the stairs, and buried the key herself. She wanted him out, all the way out, and even though he understood perfectly the game she was playing, he had no choice but to head her wishes. If for no other reason than he respected her right to lock him out. He would do as she silently demanded and leave it alone, at least for now. But he would wait, and watch, and eventually, she was going to let him into that secret world. He couldn't leave her like that, not when he knew so well what it was to be locked into a dungeon of your own making. An identity that was both your salvation and your damnation. There was no escape for him, but Reggie, Reggie was worth saving, and even if it wasn't his normal gig, save her was exactly what he was going to do. And it made Dean uneasy, that he cared so much.

He'd spent a lifetime learning to keep people at arm's length. He had lived his whole life in a world where there were only three constants. Sam, his father, and him. Everything, everyone else, could be no more than a temporary time marker. It wasn't that they didn't matter, it was that he couldn't afford to let them. But still, though they were often nameless, Dean remembered every single one of them. Every person he'd saved, every girl he'd touched, they stood out in his mind, the little human interludes that kept his soul anchored firmly to his body, even though they only appeared for a brief moment, immediately swallowed and swept away in tide of fear, adrenaline and danger that demanded and enforced isolation. But Reggie had broken all the rules. In all honesty, he'd never been as intimate with a woman in all is life as he was with her. She'd been with them just over two months and she'd already saved his hide and his soul. She knew things that no one else did, that no one else could, and every night, she slept in his arms.

Dean couldn't conceal his smile. She had underestimated him. She was used to being the one holding the cards. Her gift gave her an undeniable advantage. Usually, she knew more about you and how you felt, than you did. But not this time. She might think that she was in control of the situation, but she didn't know what he knew. She didn't know how well she fit him, or how she clung to him in the night. He knew she'd already made her choice. The cool façade she was projecting now was just that, another mask. If, that next night, she'd balked, if he hadn't awakened with his arms full of her, he might have believed otherwise. But he had, and she was wrapped around him so tightly he couldn't help but think that it was as if she was trying to make up for the hell she'd put him through earlier that day. And the shaky, tremblely feeling around his heart had eased. She wasn't really rejecting him, the easy flow of her body following his when he rolled onto his back told him that somewhere beyond the influence of her waking mind, there was a part of Reggie that already trusted him, and that part of her needed his help.

That knowledge put Dean in the driver's seat, even if she didn't know it. Settling into the mattress and stroking the thick, soft mass of Reggie curls away from where they were tickling his nose, Dean did what he did best, he formulated his plan of attack. First, he would have to convince her that he wasn't a threat, and to do that, he'd have to get a hold of himself. Losing his cool and jumping her would get him nowhere. She had only felt the sensual blaze of their passion in her dreams. But for Dean, it was all a torturous reality. One that he had to resist, at all costs.

If he really wanted to help her, he was going to have to do what he'd promised himself, and just be her friend, because for once in his life, Dean knew, he knew that Reggie wasn't going to leave him. But one day, one day soon, he would have to leave her, and if he took that final step and let himself have her, he wasn't sure either of them would survive the separation, but he was damn sure neither of them would survive it if he stayed. So, he would avoid having to make that choice by keeping his goddamned distance. His father had been made a hunter by tragedy, as had his brother. Only Jessica's death had truly set Sam's feat on the path of vengeance. In the end, it had been he who walked most closely beside their father. Dean was different. Dean hadn't been made a hunter by hate, but by love. It was how he had protected the remains of his family, how he ensured that no other would ever suffer what they had. When the demon was gone, Sam would return to the normal world and live his normal life. But hunting wasn't what Dean did, not like Sam, not like his father, a Hunter, was what Dean was. And hunter's didn't have homes, or wives, or families. Dean didn't have Reggie, and for both their sakes, it had better stay that way, because one way or another, a hunter walked alone.

It was hard. Far harder than Reggie had anticipated, to force herself to treat Dean as though he barely mattered. The attempt drove home to her how many little habits and intimacies she'd slipped into without really noticing. For example, she hadn't really realized how the first thing she did when she woke up in the morning was look for him, smile at him, and wait for him to smile in return. She hadn't realized that she anticipated the moment when, one way or another, she would catch him staring, and she would feel the slow heat of his caressing gaze before they both looked away. When she went into the bathroom, his things were scattered everywhere, mingled and strew among her own. And that made her smile because, much to Sam's dismay, Reggie had so not turned out to be the stereotypical girl roommate he'd been hoping for. She was at least as messy as Dean, though she did wash and fold her clothes regularly. There was the way he always, even after all this time, muttered about how anyone could drink "that stuff" even as he handed her her morning cup of green tea, which he'd probably had to go to three different places to find. And the way he was already reaching for her bag before she'd even begun to push it towards him as she made her way out to the Impala. Easily grabbing the heavy duffle she was lugging with one hand and tossing into the back seat in a move that spoke of familiarity and comfortable routine.

In short, Reggie had completely missed the moment when Dean Winchester had become a valued part of her life, instead of a temporary, largely unwelcome, guest.

But she did manage, just barely, to hold herself aloof when he did smile, to inject a subtle hint of coolness and distance into her words. To empty her actions and her eyes of that tiny zing of awareness that made every word and every touch count. And she felt hollow the whole time. Hollow and cruel. As she watched, on that first day, his reaction. First there was confusion, which flared into anger, and then flitted through panic and hurt. When she'd slid into their shared bed and felt the tension radiating off him, looked into his eyes and seen the confusion and the worry, she'd closed her eyes and prayed that he gave in quickly, because that wounded look, knowing that she'd put it there, was killing her. It was his worst fear, she knew, being left, being abandoned, and she hated herself for using it against him. Turning away so that he wouldn't see how tightly she had to squeeze her eyes against the tears that threatened, she'd nearly choked on the guilt. But there was no other way to protect herself, and him. He thought he wanted to know, that the truth wouldn't matter, but she knew that it would.

The next day was different. All of a sudden Dean had rebounded from wounded puppy to his normal, cocky self. There was a disturbing gleam in his eye when he shook her awake, his beautiful, grinning face filling up her vision. And there was an acceptance in his behaviour towards her that was shocking. Reggie even went so far as to tiptoe around the edges of his mind with her gift, hating him for making her feel like the worst kind of voyeur but forcing her hand by being so goddamned cheerful. She got nothing. Only the blithe, steady hum of a sense of purpose and anticipation. It confused the hell out of her. They were heading north now, and were just this side of the Louisiana/ Arkansas border when they stopped for gas. It was almost 600m from Alexandria, Louisiana to Conway, Arkansas, which was their goal, and judging by the tension that was currently causing Reggie's muscles to twitch and knot, it was going to be one hell of a long drive. She struggled to keep her mask of indifference firmly in place, while she puzzled over what was going on with Dean.

Sam climbed out of the car, stretching the cramps out of his long limbs and cricking his neck.

"I'm gonna run into the store here and grab some drinks and a snack" he said.

He leaned down to look a Reggie through the open window,

"You want anything?"

"No thanks hon" she responded absently, never taking her narrowed gaze from Dean, who was whistling quietly to himself as he pumped gas.

Sam shrugged and sauntered around the car, passing close by his brother, he pointed to the small variety store, silently repeating his earlier offer. Dean shook his head and Sam nodded. His long legs carried him quickly across the asphalt and into the cramped building.

Finishing with the gas, Dean replaced the cap on the fuel tank and walked back around to his side of the car. His lips twitched when Reggie resolutely looked away from him as he slid into the driver's seat. He knew she must be wondering what was going on. Why he was all of a sudden fine with her distant treatment of him. Truth was, he wasn't fine with it. Even knowing that in her mind it was, in some twisted way, a defense mechanism, and that she wasn't really abandoning him, it bothered him that she'd felt it was necessary to pretend. She was withdrawing and it was time to put a stop to that. Dean flexed his hands on the wheel and considered his options. He'd originally thought that he'd just wait her out. He knew that she wouldn't be able to keep it up forever, it wasn't in her nature, even though she thought that she was hiding it from him, he knew her well enough to know that hurting him would be hurting her. She was far to gentle a soul to bear easily the burden of causing pain to others. In fact, as far as he could tell, Reggie had made an unofficial career doing just the opposite. And that just made the dilemma now facing him more complicated.

He knew that if she had been pushed to the point where she would resort to this, trying to push him away with pain, she must be feeling truly terrified, trapped. He'd figured if he just accepted it, acted normally, she would see that shutting him out wasn't necessary, that he wouldn't push her, that she was safe with him, but he was getting impatient. And besides, he didn't want to just sweep it all under the rug. Living in denial wouldn't help her, what he had to do was confront her, and make her realize that he wasn't the enemy. Unfortunately, his verbal communication skills were a bit rusty and given her reaction to his last attempt at getting her to open up, he'd have to find a place where she couldn't run from or avoid him, because he was betting that if he brought up the subject again, she'd bolt before hearing a single word her had to say, either that or attack him. He didn't relish either notion. Drumming his hands on the wheel, Dean cast his eyes towards the tiny store where Sam had disappeared. There was no sign of his brother. He looked back at Reggie, noting the aloof tilt of her chin and the compression of her lips. His eyes narowed as he took in that telling sign of distress. This was hurting both of them, and it was ending, now. Dean shrugged to himself. Subtlty had never been his style. It was time to take his beautiful, tawny tigress by the tail. He looked around, but not here. Dean reached for his cell phone.


	55. Chapter 55

Hello Hello m'dears. Again ,sorry for the long wait between updates. All during this last month when I was so busy with school I wasn't really writing, just fixing up and posting stuff I already had. And as a result, I'm now out of stock material so to speak, so things are coming hot off the presses. Hence, when something gives me grief, for example, the dialouge in this chapter, I've got nothing to put up until I hammer it out. Anyway, enough with the long winded excuses. Happy reading.

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Sam rolled his eyes and waited patiently while the little, elderly, blue-haired lady at the front of the line carefully counted out fifty pennies from her small black change purse. His arms were full of the kind of junk food that comprised he and his brother's 'on the road' diet. Chips, soda, plenty of chocolate for Reggie, and a couple of cans of iced tea because she didn't like coke. When his phone beeped he had a hell of a time juggling his armful around until he could snag it out of his back pocket. He needn't have bothered, the whole lot crashed out of his arms onto the floor when he read the text message from Dean. Racing for the door, he arrived just in time to see the Impala pull out of the lot and go speeding back the way they had come.

"Shit!" he cursed, earning a glare from the blue-haired lady as she made her way by him.

"Sorry" he mumbled sheepishly, but continued a steady stream of obscenities under his breath as he looked down at the message again.

It read, 7mS, DT.

"Sonofabitch!" he snarled, and, dreaming of all the ways he was going to make his brother pay for this, stepped out the door and headed down the road at a brisk pace.

Reggie's head snapped around toward Dean when he started up the Impala.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

He ignored her and pulled out of the gas-station, turning right and heading back south.

"Are you out of you mind?" she cried, turning her head and craning to look back the way they had come.

"What about Sam?"

"Sam will meet us in a bit" said Dean calmly.

"But right now, you and I need to have a little talk."

And God how he wished there were another way to do this. For Dean, it was never the 'walking the walk' part of the equation that was a problem. It was pathetic really, he thought to himself as, keeping one eye on the odometer, he chose a suitably isolated stretch of abandoned road and turned onto the shoulder of the highway. He surveyed his chosen battlefield, noting the waving fields of dry grass and the endless canopy of blue sky. So, he'd lasted less than forty-eight hours. Two days of indifference from Reggie and he was reduced to kidnapping.

He dragged a hand through his hair. His life had never been simple, but Dean had always felt that he knew what he had to do. If there was something bad that needed killing, he killed it. If Sam was in danger, he saved him. In short, Dean dealt with the chaos that was his life by reducing the proliferation mind-numbingly intense and stressful problems to two very basic components. Problem and solution. If he'd dwelt on the details, on the probability of success, he'd have given up and died long ago. Dean didn't calculate odds, as far as he was concerned, there was only one possible outcome. Failure was never an option. Of course, the only problems of the touchy feely kind he ever dealt with were Sam's, and that was only when he was left with no other option. And with Sam it was different. Dean knew Sam better than he knew himself. Knew how to buoy him up, how to make him believe. Reggie was a whole different story. He felt he had a decent handle on her motivations, but he didn't know how to get through to her. So he was stuck. He only knew how to do one of two things when confronted with a problem, ignore it, or confront it, and since ignoring it wasn't working...

Phase one of his plan was helping her to feel safe with him. But words were so complicated and he never seamed picked the right ones. He didn't even know where to start and to make matters worse, the more he thought about what he was about to attempt, the tighter the knots in his stomach drew. Dean took on the kinds of creatures the average human imagination could never even conceive of, without batting an eyelash. But the thought of tackling an angry, defensive Reggie with no more ammunition than a handful of aural signifiers, scared him stupid. He didn't know if he was more worried about the idea that he might blunder again and drive her further away, or the idea that she might throw his attempt at peacemaking in his face. He was miles out of his comfort zone, feelings were her thing, not his. His father had always taught him that the first rule of engagement was to pick your battleground wisely, and here he was, strolling smack into the middle of her territory. Honestly, he'd take monsters any day.

Idly, he wondered how in the hell he'd managed to get here, and he wasn't talking about a deserted strip of highway in northern Louisiana. He decided that didn't matter right now, as he measured the waves of righteous fury rolling off the small woman sitting next to him. All that mattered was, here they were, and they weren't leaving until they'd had this out.

Reggie glared at Dean as he drove. For the first several minutes she'd been able to do nothing but gape at the green blur of scenery out the passenger-side window, as her brain denied the obvious. She'd struggled to convince herself that he was actually high-jacking her. That he could be so insufferably high-handed. Her eyes narrowed, the bloody arrogant bastard. She'd known he wasn't happy with the situation between them, but, she had to admit, she'd underestimated him. He hadn't backed down, she should have realized that he wouldn't. But if he thought he was going to bully her into confiding in him, he had another thing coming. Fisting her hands, she prepared herself for the coming battle.

When Dean pulled off the road and onto a small, abandoned dirt lane that had once lead to somewhere but was now just a weedy decoration and killed the engine, she felt a fission of unease snake through her anger. She considered, but only for a split second, getting out of the car. They were in the middle of nowhere, where would she go? She couldn't escape and, she realized grimly, that was exactly the point. Unlike Dean, Reggie was very, comfortable with words and, she knew that, as a man more comfortable with actions than words, Dean had no idea of the damage she could do with them. They bubbled up inside her now, a verbal arsenal seething at her disposal. Coupled with the very intimate knowledge she had, what she knew about the darkness that writhed, caged, inside him, she could have shredded him into pieces. Left him quivering and exposed. But, despite the dark allure given to that course of action by her fury and the worm of fear which urged a preemptive strike, the feral impulse to attack that masked her own vulnerability, was held at bay the prickling awareness assaulting the edges of her mind. Gone was the cocky, indifferent calm of earlier. She could feel his nerves, a discomfort that flirted on the edge of fear, that she felt even through the thick blanket of apathy she'd wrapped around her senses.

Dean turned to look at Reggie, noting how her eyes swept quickly over their new location, seeking an avenue of escape, and glittered with the light of battle when she accepted there was none. She turned that baleful glare on him and gave up any pretense of not knowing what this was about. Looking into those stormy golden orbs, feeling the air inside the Impala crackle with the force of her wrath, Dean was forced to wonder if he was going to get out of this one in one piece. He almost smiled at the irony. To think, that after all of the nightmarish horrors he'd faced, he might well meet his fate at the hands of a tiny, tawny-haired woman with the eyes of a vengeful goddess, her lovely face set into cool, foreboding lines. Looking at her in this moment, he would have believed she was capable of anything, but he'd passed the point of no return. Dean's resolve to deal with the situation between them hardened. He had to get through to her, he was positive that if he failed, there would be no second chance.

"What in the hell, do you think you're doing Winchester!? This isn't how it works. Just because you don't like something doesn't mean you get to drag me out to the middle of nowhere so you can try and make me tell you what you want to hear."

Reggie let her outrage vibrate in every, carefully enunciated word.

He had the gall to smile at her.

"Not too happy, are you?" he said, still in that insufferably calm voice.

"Oh, don't miss a tick do you Einstein?" she snarled sarcastically, tone clipped.

She crossed her arms,

"You have the emotional maturity of three year old. What in the hell is going on Dean?"

He didn't falter under the heated accusation of her gaze.

"I think that maybe I should be asking you that question."

She looked away,

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He sighed. _Here goes nothing_.

"Yeah, you do. And I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop treating me like some kind of emotionally stunted moron. You've been acting as though I was a mildly irritating stranger you're being forced to put up with ever sine I asked you about your Dad."

She stiffened.

"I told you to leave it alone."

"Yeah" he nodded,

"I remember. And then, since you knew that I wouldn't, you thought you'd try to make me."

His blunt and uncomfortably accurate assessment of her behaviour set Reggie reeling. She was surprised that he'd pegged her so precisely, so easily read the buried intent behind her actions. She had chosen to ignore, in her anger and panic, what she had always known about Dean. He was a far more astute and, well, sensitive wasn't really the right word. It was too, refined, too deliberate, too civilized to describe Dean's brand of insight. It was an almost primitive, visceral form of empathy. Dean's green eyes looked at the normal, safe world that most people lived in with the detached insight only someone who walked in that world without ever really being a part of it, could. The piercing gaze of the outsider bypassed all the trappings and societal conventions to reach truth. Dean saw the world he protected, but to which he could never belong, with a probing, measuring combination of intellect, but more importantly, instinct. He read people, places, and situations the way only a man who's life, and very often, the lives of others, depended upon his ability to not only _see_ the veiled truth which so often hid in plain sight, but to process and react to that information under extreme duress. It was marriage of skill, honed practically from the cradle, and natural ability.

Dean, for all his internal isolation, was a people person. And he was more than capable of taking the disjointed strands of what he saw in you, which was more than most, and in Reggie's case, definitely more than she intended, and weaving them into a _very_ accurate understanding, by filling in the blanks with information garnered by his sharply observational brain. Dean was always watching, even when you didn't know it, and even, Reggie suspected, when he didn't intend it. The guardian spirit that fueled Dean, that drove him through the continual tragedy, the fear, the deadly weight of responsibility, was never at rest. It really wasn't so different, Reggie realized, from what she herself did. Minus a few extrasensory advantages.

The point was, he'd guessed her game, and was calling her on it.

Reggie's stomach twisted as he threw the truth at her. She had done what she hated doing above all, used her gift against another. It was the first indication that what she had feared her interaction with Dean might lead to, was becoming a reality. Loss of control, a distorting of herself. It wasn't his fault, but, the threat he posed, and her desperate attempt to protect herself, was leading her to places she didn't want to go. Moving her toward a Reggie she didn't want to be.

Her guilt over her actions made her downgrade from snarling fury to denial.

"Please Dean. Don't, I…I…There's nothing wrong. And even if there was, it's my problem."

He shook his head.

"No good Reggie. I know that you're used to being the one calling the shots. I've noticed that that's how you generally interact with people. You always seem so strong, so in control, that they surrender the reins to you before they even realize that they're doing it."

He locked eyes with her.

"That isn't going to work on me Reggie. You can't manipulate me into leaving you alone, this relationship can't function only on your terms. Aren't you tired of always having to take all the responsibility, of having to do all the work in your relationships? You make all the decisions, for both people, about how you're going to interact, and then you set up a very complicated set of situational and emotional controls which allows you to direct the action."

He paused, and looked her directly in the eye, "I won't be lead Reggie."

She was looking shocked and horrified.

"I don't use my gift to control people emotionally!" she burst out, aghast.

Dean shook his head.

"I know that. I'm talking about how you set it up so that the people you're involved with are dependant on you, and you give everything, everything but trust, and so can never get as much as you deserve in return. The problem with that is, you're always having to be so careful, planning and directing every move and never able to just be. It's like you don't trust anyone to want you for yourself, you're always trying to hide something, while trying to pretend you don't have anything to hide."

He paused, trying to sort though the tangle of words that had spilled out so unexpectedly, to assure himself that he understood what he was saying, and hoped to God she could make sense of his ramblings, because to was too late to stop now.

"That's a lot of balls to keep in the air, but with me, there's already one less. I know that you've got a secret, and we need to talk about this."

She gave him an incredulous look.

"Now that's a sentence I never thought I'd hear pass you lips."

He gave a chagrined smile,

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's the only way to get it done."

He didn't sound too happy about that fact.

"Don't change the subject" he added.

Reggie didn't know whether the fact that solving her problems had made Dean's "get it done" list made her want to smile, laugh, cry, or scream. It did however tell her beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she wasn't getting out of this one unscathed. Saying that Dean was stubborn was like saying granite was hard, his whole demeanor, not to mention his energy, spoke of determination and purpose.

"Goddamn it!" Reggie swore softly, and looked into Dean's clear green eyes.

She'd known, right since the beginning, that he was going to be trouble. Her gut had told her that Dean Winchester was a very serious threat to her safe and stable world from the moment she'd laid eyes on him. She suddenly remembered with crystal clarity, thinking on the very first night she'd spent with the brothers, that he wouldn't be shuffled or shunted or manipulated into any of the tidy categories she used to organize her relationships and protect her secret. And she'd been right. Here he was, challenging the façade she'd so painstakingly built, the one that hid the many cracks in her soul. Reggie had spent her whole life carefully selecting the people that she let get close to her. In each of her relationships there was a clear, though often unacknowledged, agreement about boundaries. The problem was, Reggie hadn't chosen Dean, would have avoided him like the plague in fact, if it hadn't been for circumstances beyond her control, because he was clearly the kind of person who wasn't going to make that deal.

He was a leader and a protector. He wouldn't simply take what she offered. Wouldn't respect the walls and the no trespassing signs, the firmly closed doors and emotional destinations marked "off limits". He wouldn't, like the many other people she chosen to let into her life, carefully respect the boundaries she laid out and take care not to stray from the path that she set for them. No, Dean Winchester challenged her at every turn. He was as immovable as a rock, practically a goddamned force of nature, and he was proving it right now. All the walls she'd built, he walked right through them as though they didn't exist. She couldn't escape him. Couldn't push him away. He wouldn't allow it.

"Reggie"

Dean's tone was gentle, he could see something dangerously close to panic growing in her eyes, as she realized that he wasn't going to let her go.

And Dean was right. Reggie was panicking. Her breath was coming in sharp, short gasps as though she'd been trying to run from him physically as well as emotionally. Her pupils were dilated and her heat was fluttering wildly in her chest. The rapid, violent rhythm of a trapped animal. Her mind and heart couldn't take anymore of this. All the stress and strain of the extraordinary circumstances she found herself in were squeezing her in a vice of fear and uncertainty and she was certain she was going to shatter. Terror and worry warred for supremacy in her mind. Fear of an unknown demon enemy and fear for her sanity and very identity form the one man who could keep her safe, chased each other through her mind in an endless ring of conflict and trepidation. Add to that her concern for Sam, for Dean, whose deeply buried wounds she could not help but want to heal, for Cami and her family, the pressure of lying to them, and the fear that they would discover that she was missing and put themselves in danger trying to find her. Not to mention the strain of a handful of supernatural near-death experiences and one spirit possession. The spiritual, mental and emotional fabric of Reggie's body and soul were stretched so thin, her nerves wound so tightly, that she thought it was a miracle she hadn't given up the ghost weeks ago and just gone stark raving mad. It sure as hell would have been easier.

But in spite of all that, she hadn't, in all this time, been as terrified for herself as she was in this moment. Because Dean, of all people, had seen past all the illusions, had by passed all the defense mechanisms, and he was seeing her. And they both knew that she was vulnerable to him, that he had her on her heels. That she couldn't keep this up much longer. She was fighting for her life on a dozen fronts, to maintain a sense of self and protect those she loved so that if this ordeal ever ended, that life would be worth living. If Dean wanted to, if he kept pushing, she would break. She would tell him what he wanted to know, and watch her whole world come crashing down around her ears as a result, destroyed by the truth she could not live with, that she could not, _must not,_ reveal to Dean's intense, questioning gaze.


	56. Chapter 56

Hey guys. Trying to get back on schedule with the updates here. It was really challenging to find a voice which would both allow Dean to express these kind of deeper, more emotional sentiments, but still sound like himself. I hope I didn't muff it. Enjoy.

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"Reggie."

Dean's deep, soothing voice cut through the scene of emotional carnage that dominated her mind.

"This isn't about forcing you to tell me something that you don't want to. That wouldn't work anyway. I know" he looked deeply into her tormented golden eyes, willing her to believe him,

"I'm not trying to find out what you don't want me to know, because believe it or not, I realize that my knowing won't help me to help you. I know there isn't anything I could say that would make a difference. Knowing something is true from a logical, rational perspective is not the same as believing it in you heart. As feeling it to be true. That kind of change takes actions, not words. I'm not trying to minimize or simplify, or even fix your problem."

He stopped for a moment.

"And despite what you think of me and my "cowboy" ways, I'm not arrogant enough to think that I could. What I'm trying to tell you that you can stop. You don't have to pretend, you don't have to hide or run. You don't have to worry about me. I promise, I won't push you."

He took a deep breath,

"This is about, dealing with reality. And the reality is, I know that you're not alright and that, for some reason, you're desperate to keep me from finding out the why and how of whatever happened to you. And I don't want you carrying that extra burden, I don't want you to be afraid of me. You clearly already have enough to worry about." The last was murmured softly, and the words were pregnant with regret. Reggie's life had clearly never been easy or normal, but Dean was willing to bet it had gotten a whole unholy helluva lot crazier and scarier since he'd walked through the door.

Reggie could feel Dean's sincerity, the truth in what he said. It cut though the buzzing, blurring wall of panic that had begun to envelop her. His insight shocked her and something constricted painfully around her heart as relief surged through her, stealing the clenched power from rigidly wound coils of dread that twisted through her, preparing to fuel a hopeless fight or flight response to the trap she'd been so sure Dean was building. The sudden release of pent up energy left her feeling shaky and weak.

She slumped against the seat of the Impala, deflated.

Dean was appalled when tears sprang into Reggie's eyes, and he felt claws of panic tighten in his throat.

"Oh God, please don't cry!" he sounded desperate.

It made Reggie smile through the tears. She could well imagine that Dean was the kind of man who had no idea what to do with a weeping woman.

"I'm not crying" she insisted.

"They always say that" he muttered.

She shook her head. He made it all seem so simple. So easy. All she had to do was let go. Dean wasn't demanding, he was offering. Offering her a friendship without pretenses, where there was both awareness and trust. Dean knew she had a secret, so she didn't have to worry about always pretending that she was fine, she didn't always have to be the strong one. He was telling her that she could, possibly for the first time in her life, just be herself. She didn't have to force him away to ensure her own safety. On the contrary, she could have both. At least as far as her past was concerned, Dean was not her enemy. Dean was offering her security, a relationship between equals, a haven, where she could have a secret, but not worry about having to keep it. And Reggie suddenly felt lighter. It felt good, she realized, to not have to worry about projecting the right image, to conceive of ways to keep Dean out, to have that weight lifted off her. He would stay out of what she asked him to, effectively removing the burden of concealment and deception from her. It was a strange kind of freedom and, ironically, one that could only have been offered by someone who knew that she was hiding something, who was privy to a confidence she would never willingly share.

But unfortunately, it wasn't just about trusting Dean, it was about trusting herself not to be tempted by him into doing something that she knew might destroy her. Like love him. Like making love with him. Her suspicions were confirmed when she looked back up at him, to find his green eyes watching her with a now familiar hunger burning in their golden depths and she felt an answering fire, one that now seem to burn inside her perpetually, leap in response.

She swallowed hard, not realizing that her former wariness once again risen to fill her eyes.

Dean closed his and leaned his head back against the seat. He didn't look at her when he spoke again.

"And that too" he said softly.

"You don't have to worry about it either."

"What?" whispered Reggie.

He lifted his head and met her questioning amber eyes.

"You don't have to worry about me jumping you. I won't lose control of myself if you touch me. Or if I touch you."

And to prove it, to both of them, he reached out for her.

"Dean, don't…" Reggie shied instinctively away, jerking back swiftly, but her flight was impeded, and put to sudden end, by the passenger door of the car. She felt the bite of the door handle against her back, and fumbled for it. She didn't know what would happen if Dean kissed her, had no idea how she would react, was only sure that she couldn't afford to find out. Afraid that in her current state of distress and distraction, she wouldn't have the strength to resist him. But she wasn't fast enough. Dean's big hands were gripping her arms, pulling her toward him. The front seat of the Impala suddenly seemed tiny, confining, and Reggie had neither room nor strength to thrash against Dean's persistent hold. As he dragged her unwilling body over the seat, she opened her mouth to scream, but the sound got caught in her throat, when he pulled her tightly against his side.

The living heat and sleek, firm resilience of his muscled chest and abdomen pressed against hers as he tucked her along his body. One long arm wrapped over her left shoulder and pressed against her back. His large hand curled around the curve of her hip, applying a firm steady pressure that kept her in place, the other was braceleted loosely around her wrists, keeping her hands and arms immobile. Reggie craned her head to look into Dean's face, preparing for the inevitable, trying to quash the little, shuddering thrill that ran through her at the thought of finally having that incredibly sinful mouth on hers, trying to hold onto her anger, the heat of which was fast being overtaken by a very different kind of fire. But the fear remained to bank the flames. Stiffing her body as much as possible, Reggie compressed her lips and tilted her chin defiantly.

"Besides, it must be exhausting, always having to make sure that we never get too close. I mean, it's quite a feat really, considering we practically live in each others pockets" Dean continued as though nothing had happened. The rumble of his voice vibrated through his body and into hers, Reggie shivered.

"What?" she croaked out, not understanding, her body still tight, thrumming with an anticipation caught painfully between fear and hope.

"This" he shifted against her, nudging her body with his. He looked down into her eyes,

"I'm a grown man Reggie. I can take no for an answer. I think we've had the conversation where we discuss the fact that you don't have to treat me like I'm some sort of leaper in order to protect your virtue." Now he sounded a bit long suffering.

"Oh."

She blushed wickedly. They'd never really discussed it so candidly before. There had been a million unspoken agreements made between them to avoid it, but that just wasn't doing the trick. At least not for her. Apparently Dean didn't consider resisting her many charms such a chore. _And why should he? _She demanded of herself, noting how thoroughly unaffected he seemed by their current proximity. Whereas she could barely form a coherent thought because the left side of her body was flattened against the wall of Dean's chest from breast to thigh, his palm was cupping her hip, and his body heat was seeping into her. She tried to fight off the drugging effect of his closeness and chastised herself scathingly. _It's just physical. It's not like he can't have any woman he wants to satisfy that urge. Just because lust and love are practically the same thing to you, doesn't mean it's that way for everyone. _It was really the height of arrogance for her to think that just because she could barely keep her hands off him, what he felt was equally strong.

As far as she could tell, Dean had never met a female under the age of forty that he didn't respond to. Like Sam was always muttering, "Anything with breasts and a pulse." His interest was minor, casual, and generally concerned with her status as a member of the female gender, rather than a specific desire for her as an individual. In short, she could relax because Dean didn't really want _her. It_ should have been a reassuring thought, so Reggie couldn't have said why it depressed her so much. She sagged against Dean feeling strangely defeated. After all, there was no point in resisting, there was nothing to be afraid of. He hadn't been planning to kiss her, so over come by passion that he couldn't help himself. Reggie mocked herself, he'd just wanted to ease her foolish fears. Fears that she was being forced to admit were based more on her unruly desire for him, than on his for her. It clearly wasn't Dean that she should be worried about.

Dean smiled a little as he felt Reggie relax against him and released her hands. He was trying very hard to ignore the effect her nearness was having on his body. He could smell her, lemon and honeysuckle, and feel her. Jesus, the soft, supple warmth of her body resting against his was almost unbearable, when coupled with the arousing mixture of nerves, desire and defiance in her eyes. Every time she took a breath, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest. She was so close, it would take nothing to shift his grip on her hip to his other hand and lift. He could have her astride his lap and open to the hungry demands of his body in five seconds flat. Dean looked at the colour infusing her face and shook his head. God, she was so innocent. She couldn't even talk about it without blushing. He had no business touching something so pure, even if the circumstances were different.

"I…I" she stuttered, not quite sure how to take this new turn in the conversation.

Dean shook his head again.

"What I mean is, it wouldn't be a good idea, and I know that you aren't interested."

Reggie blushed harder and hid her face against his chest. She knew what it was costing Dean to do this. To be so open, so honest. She felt she could hardly do any less.

"Well, I mean, it's not all you Dean, I mean, I", Reggie mumbled into Dean's shirt. God! She was so mortified. She couldn't quite manage to get the words out. Dean looked like he was laughing at her.

"It's not funny!" she snapped, and he sobered.

"No" he agreed, "It's not."

"And I didn't mean that the attraction wasn't mutual Reggie" and in spite of the gravity of the situation, his grin held a familiar arrogance. It was oddly reassuring.

"Oh, of course not" she muttered. "Because what woman could resist you!" She rolled her eyes, but was only partially joking.

He gave a little nod.

"And that's the other thing. You don't have to worry about what might happen if you somehow lose your grip on that unshakable self-control of yours and jump me either. You don't have to hold on so hard."

She squirmed, decided not to call him on the patronizing assumption of that statement because she'd been having similar thoughts herself not two minutes before, and said instead,

"I'm responsible for my own actions and decisions Dean. For what happens between us."

"No" he shook his head,

"This is where you always get it wrong. _We_, are responsible for what happens between us. What I meant was that both of us know that it wouldn't be a good idea for a lot of reasons, and I promise to leave you alone."

He paused,

"I can't make myself stop wanting you" he said bluntly. Reggie didn't know what she hated herself for more, the fact that she was blushing so hard it almost hurt, or the fact that those words made her heart race with guilty pleasure.

"But I can stop making you uncomfortable by telling you that I'm not going to act on it. Not ever."

And it was done. The words were like invisible shackles. Dean could practically see the phantom fetters of his will clamping down on his mind and body, binding him. He had given his word, promised her, and Dean always kept his promises. He wouldn't touch her, no matter what. If he was honest, that was why he'd put off having this conversation for so long. He'd been unwilling to shut that door so completely. But it had to be done. There was too much at stake, for both of them.

He was so earnest, so genuine. And, Reggie recognized that he was once again gently forcing her to give up the onus of control. She could do, feel, whatever she wanted. Dean would keep her safe, keep what neither of them could afford to let happen from happening, regardless. She could feel the dark, ragged chasm within that his words reveled, but didn't pry. So she only knew that Dean was hurting, didn't realize that it was because with this act, he was affirming his own unworthiness. That he believed he was broken, something to be reviled, unworthy of those basic human comforts of home, love, family. Still, she wanted to protest the welling pain. But she couldn't, his painfully insightful words echoed in her mind. _I know, that there isn't anything that I could say anyway. Knowing something is true from a logical, rational perspective is not the same as believing it in you heart._

What a pair they were. Both so tightly, so mercilessly bound by a net of ingrained, instinctive fear so powerful it was a senseless, soulless vacuum that devoured them. Reggie's gift made her more aware than most that the mind was no match for the heart. That fear like hers, like Dean's, could wring a strict obedience to the most illogical beliefs, from even the most rational mind. She could only do one thing for Dean, grant him the trust he was asking for. Actions, not words. He deserved it, and besides, it was really a moot point. If, somewhere along the line she hadn't already decided to trust him, she wouldn't still be sitting here.

The breath Dean had been holding waiting for Reggie's response came out in a rush when she smile tentatively at him. The twisting, nauseating darkness within eased as she accepted, rather than rejected his offering. It didn't disappear, but now, it glittered with a thousand tiny pin-pricks of light. Hope. And God, it hurt. Each minuscule spark was accompanied by a punch of raw, gut-wrenching fear. Dean fought the impulse to thump a hand over his suddenly wildly beating he heart. He became abruptly and uncomfortably sure that in taking this first step, in gaining even this small modicum of trust from Reggie, he had given something much greater. Something he couldn't name and couldn't take back. He considered panicking, but was distracted by the expression in her eyes.

The tension and the strain which had made everything between them so guarded and hooded seemed to lift. The sunlight filtering in through the Impala's dust streaked windows seemed brighter, the whole world felt just a little different, because Reggie looked at Dean with trust in her eyes.

"Alright" she whispered, and meant it.

Dean grinned like an idiot. Now all he had to do was keep the promise he'd made to her. He took a moment to soak up the sight of the first real smile she'd given him in almost forty-eight hours, and immediately thought about how much he wanted to lean into her and run his tongue over the soft pink curve of her bottom lip. To see what she tasted like when she smiled at him.

_Damn! _Dean smiled ruefully, catching the turn his thoughts had taken. Oh well. As he'd told her, he couldn't make himself stop wanting her. As long as his fantasies remained no more than that, he figured he was keeping his part of the bargain, and even though the ever-present hunger for her that perpetually tightened his body showed no sign of abating, Dean was confident in his self-control. Glancing over just in time to catch the sight of Reggie wetting her dry lips with her small pink tongue, Dean gave a mental groan. He was determined to keep his word, even if it killed him. He was suddenly exhausted. This last hour had been one of the most difficult of his life. Riddled with fear, awkwardness, tension, and desperation. It unnerved Dean on some deep, primitive level, to realize that he hadn't just wanted Reggie to trust him, he _needed_ her to. And he'd gone to what, for him, was the epitome or extreme lengths to achieve that goal.

Reggie was looking at him now with laughter in her eyes.

"What?" he demanded.

"Oh nothing." She said.

"It's just that I can hardly believe that Dean Winchester not only participated in, but actually instigated, an honest to God chick-flick moment. I mean, all those feelings and emotions, and the talking!"

"Huh" he grunted, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

"Damn near killed me."

And she knew that he meant it.


	57. Chapter 57

Hello All. Okay, nice long chapter here. Hope you all enjoy.

Further Note: Sorry about that little slip where there was no song title inserted. I acidentally posted an earlier, not quite complete version of this chapter. All fixed now.

Further Further Note: Okay, due to some wierd formatting issues, it appears there were some problems with punctuation and some dialouge was missing. Sorry again, it really should be all fixed now.

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"I wouldn't be so sure you're out of the woods yet."

Opening one eye to look at Reggie where she sat beside him in the front seat of the parked Impala, Dean scowled with confusion.

"What?"

She grimaced as the driver's side door of the Impala was violently wrenched open and one of Sam's enormous hands clamped down on the back of Dean's neck, dragging him bodily from the car.

"That" she told the empty seat where Dean had been.

Dean was still looking at Reggie when he felt the Impala rock sharply his door was yanked open. When he felt the hand on the back of his neck, he knew it was Sam and allowed himself to be hauled from the car. The door was slammed sharply behind him and he shook off his brother's arm and turned.

"Hey. Don't take it out on the car dude" he admonished, looking, unperturbed, into Sam's molten eyes. His brother was breathing deeply but evenly, and his face was covered by a fine sheen of perspiration.

"One good reason Dean" said Sam darkly.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick your ass right here, right now!" He shoved his phone in his brother's face.

"Seven miles south, DOUBLE TIME!" he snarled.

Dean shrugged.

"That's about standard Sammy. I figured I needed about an hour with Reggie. And unless you're in even worse shape than I thought, I figured you could handle it. Besides," his grin was infuriatingly nonchalant,

"It's good for you."

"And that's another thing!" hissed Sam, and casting a quick glance at Reggie who was still sitting in the Impala, but observing the brother's with interest. He pulled Dean further away, so their voices wouldn't carry back to her.

"You can't go seducing Reggie Dean" he said in a low growl, throwing his arms out in a gesture of exasperation and frustration.

"I mean, c'mon. Use some common sense for once in your life! She's not like the girls you normally……." Sam paused for a beat, looking for a delicate way to describe Dean's serial one-night stands.

"Date" he finished lamely.

"You're going to have to see her Dean, every day. She's going to have to see you. And I mean, I know we haven't known her that long, but I think it's pretty safe to say that Reggie isn't the king of girl who's built for casual flings. Especially not with guys like you!"

Sam poked his brother's chest for emphasis.

Up until this point Dean had stood silently and let Sam rant. Now, his eyes narrowed. He slapped away the hand Sam was pushing at his chest.

"Guys like me?" he asked, voice soft.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

Sam grimaced, realizing he'd struck a nerve. It wasn't that he thought his brother incapable of a meaningful relationship, it was just that he'd never, ever, seen Dean chose to engage in one. Which amounted to the same thing.

"You know what I mean", he muttered softly.

He would have felt a lot less guilty if Dean had snarled back, or even taken a swing at him, instead of lowering his head and murmuring a soft, uninflected agreement.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

"Dean…." Sam began, suddenly unsure, feeling as though his morally superior high ground was slipping from under him.

But Dean was already shaking his head and looking up, his familiar smirk firmly in place.

He cuffed Sam lightly on the shoulder.

"Even so. Give me a little credit man. I'm not stupid enough to get tangled up with a girl like Reggie. Among other things, she knows to much, talks to much, and" he grinned,

"Seeing as she's with us day and night…………She's just a little bit too…….um, what's the word? Present, for my taste. And if not me, than give Reggie some credit. She's a smart girl Sam, she doesn't need you to run interference for her."

Dean thought darkly about how very clear Reggie had made it that, no matter how she may or may not feel about him physically, she was not interested in him.

"I couldn't seduce her if I tried" he concluded.

Sam shook his head.

"C'mon Dean.." he gestured awkwardly,

"You know how you are...with women."

Dean cocked an eyebrow,

"You tryin' to tell me I'm irrisistable Sammy?"

Looking at Dean's mile wide grin, Sam slapped an exsasperated hand over his face but wisely chose not to answer, opting instead to return to the topic at hand.

"Fine. Then if you weren't trying to get in her pants, what was this little private pow-wow all about?"

Dean shrugged .

"We needed to have a little talk."

Sam gaped.

"About what?" he demanded.

Dean scratched his head uncomfortably.

"Just needed to sort a few things out." _Like how much I want her and why I can never have her._

"So you just, talked?" said Sam skeptically.

He wanted to believe what Dean was saying, he really did, but you'd have to have been blind, deaf and dumb not to have noticed the sexual tension that arced between Reggie and Dean like a high voltage electrical current whenever they got within a few feet of each other. And since that was pretty much most of the time, it meant Sam spent his days increasingly and uncomfortably aware of the explicit, heated thrumming that charged the air he was forced to share with them. He'd been so sure that his brother had finally given into temptation. In fact, quite frankly, he'd been amazed that Dean had held out so long. His brother was defiantly not into delayed gratification.

"Yeah, talked. You know. The thing where you move your mouth and vibrations are created in the air, and they travel and hit the ear and you know…" Dean shrugged,

"Voila, communication. I'm not that familiar with the science of it, but I'm pretty sure that's how it works."

Sam' s eyebrows shot up.

"Not familiar with the science. Dean, up until today, you weren't familiar with the practice!"

Dean frowned at him.

"What're you talkin' about Sammy, I talk all the time."

Sam rolled his eyes,

"Actually," he corrected his brother, thinking of the running, smart ass commentary Dean usually provided,

"You never shut up. But that's not the same thing Dean. Yeah, you talk a lot but, you don't really………….say all that much" he finished.

Dean shifted from foot to foot.

"Listen Sam, will you just drop it! I told you, _nothing happened_."

Dean's defensiveness surprised Sam, and a shocking possibility occurred to him.

His skepticism turned to speculation and his eyebrows rose but, before he could say anything, Dean was rolling his eyes and turning away.

"Oh Gawd!" he groaned.

"Save the speech Dear Abbey. I'd rather the ass kicking."

Sam waited a beat and Dean looked back over his shoulder at him.

"What's it gonna be? You still wanna _try_ and kick my butt, which will be a wasted effort because we both know I can take you, or you wanna get back on the road?"

Sam considered his options. He was still as irritated as hell with Dean for leaving him high and dry, and he had no doubt he would derive a great deal of satisfaction from wiping the smug grin off of Dean's face but, he was fast getting the feeling that his brother's afternoon had been no picnic. Behind his brash smile and confident stance, there were almost undetectable signs of stress. A residue of uncertainty and confusion. To anyone but Sam it would have been undetectable. The miniscule crack in Dean's swaggering persona imperceptible. But Sam could see that whatever had happened here this afternoon, it had shaken his brother's eminently unshakable cool. In fact, if his unconfirmed hunch about Dean and Reggie was correct, then it had been as close to torture as you could get. Besides, they'd wasted enough time.

"Fine" he conceded,

"We'll go. But just you wait, you'll get yours" he warned ominously.

"Shakin' in my boots" Dean assured him sarcastically.

And with that, the brothers headed back to the car. Opening the passenger door, Sam hoped into the car.

"Hey" he gave Reggie a smile.

"Sam. Oh, I'm sorry about leaving you. It wasn't exactly planned. Dean and I had to……..talk." She tried not to blush when her mind skipped back over the intense, honest conversation she and Dean had just had.

"Yeah. You tell him" said Dean as he slid back into the driver's seat on the other side of her.

"Cause he won't believe me. Assure your faithful watchdog that I didn't do anything" he instructed.

His tone was wryly humourous, as was the look he cast his brother, but Reggie sensed a subtle undercurrent of hurt and resentment. Sam was clearly projecting concern, and she decided to deal with that first.

"No, really Sam" earnest amber eyes looked into affectionate blue,

"It was…..good. We, worked some stuff out." She shot a look at Dean from under her eyelashes. He was concentrating very hard, one might have said unnecessarily so, on coaxing the Impala into growling life.

"You don't say." said Sam, and Reggie hurried to muffle the niggling hint of speculation that she unexpectedly heard and felt.

Good God! That was all she needed. She simply could not deal with any more angst today. If Sam put on his gentle, understanding face and asked her what had happened, if he got that knowing look in his eyes and started gently but inexorably demanding answers, she was going to lose it. Sam was her sweet, simple, safe companion. She didn't want to complicate the comfortable, easy rapport she had with him by dredging up the poison of her past. She wanted him to offer her the kind of uncomplicated solace that no other could. She was deeply weary in heart, mind and body, and wanted nothing more than to rest. To wrap her fatigued senses in a soothing cloud of numbness. To give herself time to process, to recover. She knew it was a bit underhanded but, she reached out anyway, searching for the strain of feeling that connected to Sam's sense of physical exertion and planted a suggestion of tiredness and sleep. Really, the hour long run had barely winded him but, like Reggie, Sam was plagued by a constant feeling of emotional turmoil and resulting exhaustion. On cue, he let out a wide, jaw-cracking yawn.

"Man" he shook his head and settled back against the seat.

"I'm bushed." He looked at Reggie.

"Care to join me in catching forty-winks?" he asked, lifting his left arm and inviting her to slide into the snug, secure nook under his arm she'd long since claimed as her own.

Breathing a silent sigh of relief Reggie nodded and scooted into his embrace. She closed her eyes gave thanks to whatever power had seen fit to present her with the gift of Sam. She had never known what it was to have an older brother, someone to care for and protect you. She had never felt this ease, this comfort, this lack of pressure and expectations, and the whole package came wrapped in gentle, artless, slightly awkward charm, complete with puppy dog eyes. But even as Reggie settled against Sam, she couldn't help but glance at Dean. She wondered what it would be like not to fear an embrace that held more than the platonic affection and uncomplicated, fraternal reassurance that Sam offered her. Really, she had accepted more from him than she had any other man. In other circumstances she would have been thrilled. Pleased that she'd managed to take another step towards emotional intimacy of any kind. But Dean made her restless, made it impossible for her to be content with what, for Reggie, was an extreme emotional luxury.

He made her wonder what it would be like not to have to edit passion out of her life. What would it be like to feel such security when wrapped in the arms of a man she loved, a man she wanted. A man who knew her secrets. Both Winchesters had changed her life. Both had wormed their way into parts of her heart she'd thought damaged beyond repair. But they were as different to her as night and day. Sam was like a deep, clear pool, his brotherly warmth buoyed her up, soothed her, allowed her to love unfettered. She liked to think she did the same for him. But Dean. Reggie shivered a little even as her eyes grew heavy, exhaustion drowning the agitated whirl of her thoughts. Dean was like a fire storm. All heat and danger and excitement. Or so she had thought. But he was also so much more. There was such gentleness, such vulnerability, buried beneath his gruff, kick ass, exterior. And as the Impala chewed up the miles between Louisiana and Arkansas, Reggie slept in Sam's arms, and dreamt of Dean.

Dean tried not to feel the tug of resentment, the flare of jealously that lit him up inside when Reggie slid into, and relaxed against Sam as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He'd just spent the last hour going over all the reasons why he didn't get to be jealous over Reggie. And he sure as hell shouldn't be jealous of Reggie and Sam. But the simple fact was, that even though this afternoon she'd chosen to put at least her partial trust in him, he couldn't deny that it had been at his insistence, and not of her volition. And while she went to Sam's arms willingly, he would have to wait until she slept for her to come to him with equal inhibition. Muttering under his breath Dean tried to put a leash on the prowling disquiet that stalked through him, and focused on the road rather than the peacefully sleeping couple.

When Reggie awoke night had fallen to envelope the Impala and the only light came from the twin beams of the car's headlights as they cut through the thick blackness or back-roads Arkansas. She could feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Sam's chest under her cheek, and hear Dean humming quietly to himself. She smiled, identifying Motorhead's Sharpshooter. Letting out a breathy little sigh, she took stock. She was feeling not only less tired, but somehow more centered, and even brave enough to face Dean after their uncomfortably frank conversation. Clearing her throat softly, she eased away from Sam's body, careful not to wake him. Sitting up, she ran her hands through her tangled hair and risked a glance at Dean. His eyes flickered momentarily toward her, acknowledging her briefly before returning to the road. The silence was deep, but not particularly uncomfortable, still, Reggie was driven to break it anyway, giving into a sudden undeniable urge to hear his voice.

"So, where are we going?"

"Over the hills and far away" came the characteristically cryptic answer.

Reggie shook her head.

"Is your inability to give a straight answer to that question kinda like the whole men can't ask for directions thing? You know, for some reason you can't just say, 'I'm not sure exactly', or 'We haven't quite figured it out'".

Dean glanced over at her.

"I know where I'm going" he assured her.

"Uhuh" said Reggie skeptically.

"So I'll ask again, are we aiming for any hill in particular?"

He jerked a shoulder.

"After Conway we'll decide where to go next. If we don't plan too far ahead it keeps our movements more erratic, makes them harder to predict and harder to track."

Of course. For a moment there Reggie had gotten so caught up in her own personal drama with Dean, that she'd all but forgotten the looming threat of the yellow-eyed demon. She stared at Dean's profile, an indistinct shadow in the dark. But Dean never forgot. His quest to find the demon had begun when he was only four years old, he'd probably thought about it every day of his life. It's fearful visage filling his mind when other children were consumed with thoughts of baseball cards and candy. It was just that he was so enigmatic, so calm, and removed and solid. So purposeful and unafraid. Even with her heightened senses, Reggie found it disturbingly easy to unload her fears onto Dean. To hand over the responsibility he was so eager to take on and simply shove the looming menace of the demon into a category marked, 'Dean will take care of it'.

She couldn't ever remember having that kind of confidence in another person. Reggie had learned early on that no one could solve your problems for you, that ultimately, the decisions that shaped your life were yours and yours alone. No one could change you. Only you could change yourself. But it was so tempting to just, leave the whole, unholy, unbelievable, supernatural side of this mess in Dean's capable hands. But she couldn't. And she wished Dean wouldn't always make her prod and pry all the details out of him. That he would, on occasion, actually, God forbid, ask for her input. She knew perfectly well that when Dean said, 'we'll decide', he meant he and Sam would decide. Sooner or later he was going to have to accept the fact that she wasn't just baggage or a part of the job. She was part of the team Goddamnit! This thing had killed her grandmother, had tried to kill her, and was somehow threatening Sam, whom she cared deeply about, not to mention what it was doing to, and had done, to Dean; when it took his mother, his father, when it jeopardized his baby brother.

Reggie was distracted from her thoughts by Dean's restless movements. He was rolling and shrugging his shoulders the way he always did when he'd been driving for to long and the muscles in his neck and back began to tense up. For a second Reggie hesitated, and then tentatively reached out to do something that she'd often thought of, but even this morning, would never have dared.

She felt Dean freeze as her left hand settled lightly on the nape of his neck, and then, she squeezed gently. His skin was warm and smooth under her fingertips, and the simple, innocuous slide of her skin against his sent a shock-wave of sensation up her arm. Heat pooled in her belly when she felt more than heard the almost inaudible vibrations of Dean's stifled groan of pleasure-pain as her fingers pressed firmly into the taunt, knotted muscles. Her hand opened and closed repeatedly with gentle, rhythmic pressure, moving slowly up and down the length of Dean's neck as his breath was raggedly expelled and her own quickened. Neither spoke, but Reggie couldn't help but smile when Dean arched and rolled his neck against her ministering fingers like a big cat, increasing the pressure. Reggie obliged his silent request and tightened her grip, even allowed her fingers to slip just beyond the edge of his hair-line and into the soft, short stands of his hair, gently massaging the base of his skull. In her mind Reggie imagined doing more. Imagined that she had been brave enough to pursue the kind of relationship with Dean that would entitle her to do more. To touch him the way she wanted to, to be the one who soothed away his pains, emotional and physical.

She envisioned herself rising onto her knees on the bench seat and sliding nearer to Dean's big, warm body until she was pressed against his side. Her right hand would come to join the left and they would delve beneath the buttery leather of his coat and the cotton of his shirt to probe and knead the heavy muscles of his shoulders. Gliding down and around, caressing what she could reach of the hot, hard planes of his chest, sliding her hands as far beneath the collar of his shirt as she could. Then she would stroke her hands down his arms, urging him to shed the leather, which he would, one arm at a time, always careful to keep a hand on the wheel. Next, she would lean around his shoulders so that she was hugging him from behind and she could slowly work a hand down each arm. Caressing the coiled strength of his long limbs, reveling in the sensation of sliding her hands over the satin-over-steel texture of his body; golden skin stretched smoothly over hard muscle. Drinking in the musky leather and man scent of him that even now was teasing her senses. She wondered if he would lean back against her, his head brushing her breasts, as she bowed over and around him to reach his hands. She would lean in close then, pressing her cheek against his, nuzzling and nibbling along his stubbled jaw as, still draped around his shoulders, she raised one wide palmed hand and cradled it in both of hers. Would the touch of her mouth and hands make him moan?

She imagined herself easing out the tension imbedded in muscles and tendons from spending long hours curled around the Impala's wheel. She would run her thumbs up and over his broad palm and then lace her fingers deeply with his, flexing her hand and slowly dragging her fingers up along the length of his, soothing and stretching away any tightness. And at last she would bring it to her mouth. Caught in the unexpectedly powerful and graphic web of her whimsy, Reggie could almost feel the rough touch of Dean's calloused knuckles against her lips as she feathered kisses over the back of his hand. The same rasping friction against her tongue when she finally gave into temptation and slid one of his blunt fingertips between her lips..._Bump_.

The sudden jerk of the Impala as it lurched over a lurking pothole in the rough country road tore Reggie from the sensuous net of her fantasy. She could feel the scratch of stubble against the pad of her thumb where it rubbed against Dean's skin. Her hand jerked back as she realized she was no longer kneading the tense muscles of Dean's neck, an intimate but arguably platonic and harmless gesture. Rather, her hand had stilled and slide sideways until her thumb could stroke repeatedly along the hard line of his jaw.

Rubbing her tingling hand hard against her jeans, Reggie prayed that the interior of the Impala was dark enough to conceal her blush, lest Dean somehow guess the lurid nature of her runaway thoughts. She tried desperately to control her breathing, determined not to give away the fact that she had just engaged in an explicit, extremely physical daydream about Dean, which had left her short of breath and her body uncomfortably warm and flushed.

Dean knew the exact moment when Reggie transitioned from asleep to awake, the pattern of her breathing altering subtly and signaling the change. Giving no indication that he knew she was awake, he waited patiently for her to give some visible sign or attempt to engage him. He glanced over when he heard the rustling that accompanied her cautious shift from half-reclining to sitting. There were several long moments of silence, but still, Dean waited. He figured he'd pushed her enough for one day. Now was the time to let her come to him. Dean didn't have to wait long. The conversation that followed was relatively inane, and her pithily speculative comments on his inability to provide a clear outline of their travel plans had him swallowing a smile. He didn't mind when they once more lapsed into quiet stillness, as the atmosphere no longer carried the stilted air it so often had between them. But Dean could see, even in the dark, that Reggie had that little crease between her eyebrows, the one she always got when she was contemplating something that troubled her. Shifting around in his seat, Dean tried to flex the cramped muscles of his upper body, which were protesting at being bent into the same position for so long, as he tried to decide if he should ask her what was bothering her.

He was so surprised when he felt the light brush of her fingers over his nape that he barely curbed the reflexive urge to shrug off her questioning hand. Instead, he sat perfectly still and stared straight ahead at the road before him, waiting to see what she would do. When she began to gently knead the rigidly contracted muscles in his neck, he barely managed to swallow his heartfelt groan of surprised pleasure. His body reacted instantly to the sinuous glide of her fingertips and the profound, primal satisfaction her touch brought him when her fingers sank deeply into his aching neck. Without meaning to, Dean twisted against her hands, encouraging her to intensify her attentions, begging for deeper, more forceful contact. When she obliged, her fingers biting almost painfully into his stiff muscles, Dean's breath tore a little, as another lance of the sweetest kind of pain stabbed through him. Even as his sore muscles began to loosen and relax, Reggie's touch fueled another kind of ache. Blood pooled hotly between Dean' legs with every squeezing slide of Reggie's hand. When she suddenly went still, he cursed silently and shot a quick glance at her from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge if her sudden motionlessness meant that she had somehow sensed his arousal.

The sultry, dreamy expression on her face stole his breath. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, her lips parted and her cheeks stained pink. As Dean stared at her, entranced, her hand moved again, sliding slowly down the side of his neck, until her thumb could stroke along his jaw, sweeping repeatedly from just below his ear to the corner of his mouth. If he turned his head just a bit, he would be able to rub his lips over the caressing pad of her thumb. He fantasized about the little sound of shock and pleasure she would make. About the way her eyes would darken if he went a step further, parting his lips and allowing his tongue to dart out and lick slowly along the blade of her thumb, before it curled around the digit and drew her into the wet heat of his mouth…………._Thunk_. Dean's eyes snapped back into focus on the road before him as the Impala bounced roughly over a hidden pothole. Reggie's hand fell swiftly from his face and her eyes dropped. By the time Dean looked back at her, her gaze was fixed firmly on her lap and she refused to look back up. Beside her Sam wriggled and stretched his long body, having been jolted awake by the unexpected jarring of the car.

"Hey guys", he rubbed sleep-filled eyes.

"What'd I miss?"

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	58. Chapter 58

Hey guys. I have to reitterate apologies to feralpixc here for the later than promised update. And also, I'm going to admit to being a teeny bit worried. Eherm, not that I'm insecure or anything (really, so worried), but the number of reviews has dropped off since my extended hiatus. Tell me what you're thinkin people. To much angst? not enough? Lack or RxD sex driving you nuts? This chapter is kinda reminicent of this week's episode towards the end. I swear I didn't paln it that way. Enjoy.

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That night, as Dean lay in the hard motel bed beside Reggie, he tried to adhere to the promise he'd made to her and to himself. He turned resolutely on his side facing away from her and, sternly counseled himself against giving in and turning to take her in his arms as per their nightly ritual. If he was going to keep his hands off her and stay sane, he was going to have to find a way of strangling the deep connection he felt to her. Yes he wanted her, and the physical draw was undeniably powerful, almost painfully so, especially when she looked at him as she had earlier that night, when clandestine desire momentarily overcame her stolid common sense. But it was his growing need to experience the little things, to hear her voice and see her face. To make her smile and see the darkness in her eyes ebb. The unnamed, unknown emotion that compelled him to hold her in the night, and be content with no more than that, which was the real threat. So, Dean tried to ignore how empty his arms felt without her, silently repeating over and over again the simple facts which he knew to be true.

If he touched her the nebulous, undefined potential that shimmered unfulfilled between them would ignite. It crackled with a repressed potency that terrified Dean. He was once again balanced on the edge of some vast precipice, and below seethed a immense sea that brimmed with promise, rampant and writhing with possibilities. Some were dark, swells of pain and loss, devastation, others were incandescent with the surge of hope. All promised to consume, to transform, and all were stifled and checked by their mutual efforts. Should he falter and succumb to the passion that flickered between them, it would act as a catalyst, unleashing a far more complex and dynamic energy, an indelible, omnipotent force. The sheer magnitude of what Dean sensed brewing between he and Reggie guaranteed that if they took that final, fatal step off the edge, there would be no more holding back, no more control. The explosion of that latent capacity would loose a spiraling, consuming power neither would be able to deny and, standing at the heart of the ragging inferno, they would be fused together in what Dean could only believe would ultimately be a relationship which demanded too much from both parties, that would require sacrifices nether could make and remain whole. And yet, he was equally sure that if they took that step, the intensity of what they would create together would compel them to try anyway.

They would be left broken by self-inflicted wounds. They would twist and wring their spirits into empty, deformed shells, devoid of their original, defining essence, crippled because in trying to be together they had given up to much of themselves, and they would be destroyed. Dean couldn't afford to take the chance that his fears might become reality, couldn't indulge in the luxury of hope, because he had a job to do and, he couldn't afford to be wrong. He had to save Sam, had to avenge his family and avert whatever looming disaster was gathering like storm clouds on the horizon of his metaphysical vision. Loving Reggie would weaken him, change him, and as much as Dean sometimes resented his sardonic, hard-bitten, isolated existence, he embraced it because it gave him the strength and the tools to do what needed to be done. Hence, Dean tried to resist the temptation of Reggie's warm, somnolent body, firmly presenting her with the wall of his back.

Unfortunately for Dean, Reggie wasn't having any of it. In her sleep she gravitated to him as she always did and, oblivious to his unwelcoming posture, easily disarmed him. Instead of reacting to his back as a barrier, Reggie simply improvised. Plastering herself against him, she tucked one arm under his neck and the other around his waist, hugging him tightly from behind. An unwanted warmth expanded through him as she nuzzled the back of his neck with simple, undemanding affection, and letting out a satisfied little sigh that ghosted over Dean's skin like a caress, she slipped deeper into sleep. Dean lay awake, struggling with himself. But it was no use. It had taken every ounce of restraint he had to keep himself from holding Reggie as he usually did, but he could not bring himself to reject the unconscious sweetness of her embrace. Dean lay in the circle of Reggie's arms and, unwilling though he was, found himself soothed by her nearness. As he coasted toward sleep, Dean acknowledged that his plan had hit a major and unexpected snag. As hard as Dean was trying to let Reggie go, it seemed she was equally determined to hold onto him.

It had been two days since Reggie had unintentionally treated Dean to a excruciatingly tantalizing glimpse of what he was missing in the dark interior of the Impala. Her simple and superficially chaste touch had shaken him, and her. Her cursory caress was externally innocent enough for them to ignore, but the veiled, burning implication of sensuality had left both disturbed and hypersensitive. Now it was Dean who did his best to avoid touching Reggie, routinely keeping as much distance between them as the confines of the Impala and various motel rooms would allow, too wound up by the titillating memory of her petting to risk the contact. As for Reggie, she was caught somewhere between shock and confusion. She felt betrayed by her mind and body. It was as though when Dean had told her she needn't worry about restraining her desires for him, he'd somehow flipped an invisible switch in her brain, opening some torrential floodgate of repressed desire. Ever since that day, and that night, when she'd finally gotten her hands on him, no matter how minor the contact had been, she'd been assaulted by a constant stream of vividly sexual fantasies. She wondered what it said about her that the thoughts made her blush viciously, even if she was all alone.

It wasn't that she'd been previously been some sort of nun. She'd had daydreams and the like, occasionally. But the men in them had always been hazy, indistinct figures. Now, her dream lover was _very _specific. He was Dean. Until now her fear and iron determination not to want Dean had managed to keep her imagination more or less at bay. She had been plagued by only the occasional lapse into fantasy. But now, now, she couldn't look at him without some graphic, carnal vision popping into her head. Her fantasies were fugitive thoughts, wholly unheeding of her reason. She couldn't stop or stifle them, and they were nothing compared to what went on at night. Her dreams were painfully lucid and searingly erotic. She usually awoke with her body still fevered, feeling needy and mortified. She consistently thanked God that Dean was always gone from their shared bed by the time she rose.

Looking at him with half-remembered visions of their naked, tangled bodies drifting before her eyes would probably prove too much. She was quite sure she would either die of embarrassment, or jump his bones. Either way she'd end up dead, because the only plausible follow up to option number two would be to kill herself. Sitting miserably among tousled sheets, Reggie punched an unoffending pillow, and then grabbed it up, burying her heated face in the polyester refuge. Shutting out the world around her, a world which had become infused, practically overnight, with all things Dean. Everything she saw, touched, tasted, heard, reminded her of him. When she saw another man all she could think of was all the ways in which he wasn't Dean. If she took a drink from her water bottle, all she could imagine was the way Dean's gorgeous mouth would look wrapped around the neck of the container. Having lips like that should be outlawed. When she heard music, on the radio, in a store, she smiled because, depending on the choice of song, she was seeing Dean grinning in approval or rolling his eyes.

Dear God! This _had_ to stop! She wasn't just indulging in the occasional fancy, she was outright _lusting_ after him for Christ sakes! Smushing her face further into the pillow, Reggie half-heartedly considered the merits of simply smothering herself and being done with it. She was honestly starting to worry that one of these nights, she was going to unconsciously submit to the demands of her body and accost poor Dean in his sleep. It really didn't bear thinking about. And, to make matters worse, her newly emancipated desire, liberally aided and abetted by her clearly debauched imagination, was spilling over from the private confines of her mind into the real world. Affecting her behaviour.

For example. When the leggy brunette waitress with the sultry bedroom eyes that served them their breakfast the previous morning had made those disgusting calf eyes at Dean, Reggie had simply not been able to stop herself from imagining what she would look like with the glorious length of her chestnut locks wrapped around her neck. Just like she hadn't been able to stop herself from shooting the other woman a chilling look of discouragement, saying clearly with her eyes, _mine_. And damned if the floozy hadn't given her an apologetic half-nod of _Sorry I didn't know_, even more insufferably followed by an appreciative and knowing twinkle of _Lucky you._ Thankfully, Sam and Dean remained equally oblivious to the silent, visual conversation between the two women, though Dean did look a bit confused when his coffee refill came with only a pleasant smile, and not the slow, suggestive smirk previously offered. Reggie couldn't have said what she resented the waitress for more, hitting on Dean in the first place, or responding to her own "hands off" signal so immediately. Under normal circumstances she would have appreciated the other woman's respectful deference to her territorial claim, but there was one glaringly obvious problem. She _didn't_ have a claim on Dean. Her defensive behaviour was both inappropriate and thoroughly ridiculous. Feeling slightly sick to her stomach, Reggie had dropped her head into her hands despairingly.

"You alright?" Sam had asked, glancing up.

"I'll get back to you" she had replied, because she honestly didn't know.

By the time they were pulling into the lot of the next motel, Reggie was so distracted she lost track of where they were. She almost wept with relief, when instead of following her and Sam through the door of the delightfully dingy room 14, and into the oppressively close and…..blech, excessively floral interior, Dean offered to pick up dinner and beat a hasty retreat. However, Reggie's reprieve was short lived. If Dean was picking up dinner, that meant they would likely be eating fast food, again, or should she say, as always. The thought of plying her volatile feeling system with the kind of artery clogging fare provided by Dean's favourite, golden arched grease manufacturer made her shudder. It was just one more thing that she couldn't take. Wouldn't. It had been over three months since she'd eaten anything that she would consider a real meal, and frankly, she'd had enough. She was sick of MacDonald's and roadhouses and dinners and pretty, perky _waitresses._ She couldn't do anything about the fact that Dean practically oozed sexuality, and that just looking at him made heat unfurl in the pit of her stomach, but bad food, that, she could do something about.

"C'mon", she gestured imperiously to a surprised looking Sam as she stalked back out of room 14.

"Oh! Hey! Where're ya going?" he called in confusion, rushing after her.

"Bring the bags" was all she said.

Marching purposefully into the small lobby of the motel, Reggie advanced on the motherly looking woman seated behind the high counter.

"Hello" she said warmly.

"Oh, hello" the woman looked up at her with disinterested brown eyes, her name tag read, Doris.

"Can I help you?" she inquired, her voice clearly indicating that the correct answer to the question was, no.

"Yes" said Reggie pleasantly, trying not to grit her teeth.

"What can I do for you?" Reggie noted the newly solicitous tone and looked around for the source of the woman's change of mood. Ah, all six and half handsome, charmingly bewildered feet of Sam had caught up with her. Dumping the bags he'd been hauling, he joined Reggie at the front desk.

"What in the hell's going on?" he demanded looking at her, and then giving a slight start of surprise when he took in the receptionist and her furiously batting eyelashes.

"Uh, sorry" he apologized politely for his outburst.

"No problem sugar" she purred.

Reggie bit back a laugh as Sam squirmed under the woman's openly covetous gaze.

Taking pity on him, she tucked an arm through his and batted her own eyelashes at Doris.

"Well, you see, my boyfriend and I are celebrating our anniversary and, well, we got kinda turned around and a little…lost." Reggie let tolerant affection colour her voice and, leaning conspiratorially toward the woman, said in a hushed tone,

"Actually, we wound up in the wrong state. Didn't we honey?" she said, improvising as she went and, turning to Sam, she gave his arm a consoling little pat. Thoroughly nonplussed, his masculine ego blanching at the suggestion of such directional incompetence, he nodded mutely. Satisfied, Reggie returned once more to the story she was weaving, a good lie was determined by the details.

"So anyway, our nice, cozy weekend getaway has….evolved into a little adventure. And the thing is, on the actual day of the anniversary, which is today, I always make Sam Chicken Marsala because that's what we had on our first date."

Reggie could sense that she had the woman now. She might have appeared apathetic on the outside, but inside, she was mush, and the cloying tale Reggie was feeding her had touched something lonely inside Doris that melted at the sickly sweet, textbook romance.

Reggie went in for the kill,

"I know that technically we've already booked another room but, I don't suppose you'd have anything with at kitchenette?"

Doris nodded enthusiastically. Happily swapping the small key Reggie offered up for a larger, heavier one, she beamed at the couple and said,

"Room 1A, and as an anniversary gift, I won't even charge you any extra for the bigger room. It has a couch and everything."

Reggie smiled back,

"Oh Doris, how sweet of you. Sam and I really appreciate this."

She stepped forcefully on Sam's foot and he pulled himself together enough to shoot Doris a grateful, lopsided grin. She would wait until they got back to their new room to tell him how much his smile had meant to the solitary, bored woman. Doris blushed and nodded, barely regaining her voice in time to call after them as they went out the door,

"And if you're looking for groceries, the little store on the corner has most things. They're kinda expensive…" she qualified hastily when Reggie looked back.

"No problem, Thanks again Doris."

Once outside, Reggie relieved Sam of her duffle and headed toward the new room.

"What was that all about?" he asked her.

Reggie shrugged,

"Even contemplating the thought of eating one more meal of fast food had my gag reflex reacting."

Sam nodded,

"Yeah. I know. It's like death by hamburger or something. But," he shrugged,

"Eventually you get used to it."

Reggie shook her head,

"I don't think that's gonna work for me. It's time to try another solution."

"Hmmm" said Sam absently, looking back the way they had come.

'You know, even if we didn't have to pay any extra for the room, Dean's still gonna be pissed when he gets back and finds out we moved without telling him."

"Can't you call him?"

Sam shook his head,

"I've still got his phone. Mine died earlier and I borrowed his to" he blushed a little,

"Call Cami."

Reggie smiled but let that slide for the moment.

Unlocking the door marked 1A, Reggie strode into a room which, while still saddled with a botanical theme reminiscent of Little Shop of Horrors, was much larger than their previous prospect, and it came equipped with a table, a stove, a small fridge and a tiny, laminate counter. Making a beeline for the kitchen area, Reggie rummaged for a moment under the stove and emerged triumphantly, holding a square baking pan in her hand.

" I think I have just the thing to appease Dean. Let's go check out that store" she suggested.

Rubbing a tired hand over his face, Dean guided the Impala back into the parking lot of the tiny motel. Killing the engine, he sat quietly for a moment, gathering himself. He was in for yet another uncomfortable night of unfulfilled longing and, he looked at the greasy bag on the seat beside him, bad food. The situation between he and Reggie was emotionally stable, and physically, more stressful and frustrating than ever. Honestly, he knew what the solution should be. There hadn't been any sign of the yellow-eyed demon since Dean and Sam had rescued Reggie three months ago. While she was with them she was in danger from a variety of other supernatural threats. And she was distracting him and generally driving him crazy.

What they should really do, what they probably should have done long ago, was find a nice, safe place for Reggie to stay while he and Sam went out and hunted down the sulfur-eyed sonofabitch. Dean was tired of running, he wanted this to end. But hunting down the demon, confronting it like that, was dangerous enough with just Sam to worry about, he couldn't do it with Reggie in tow. Really, the simplest solution was to tuck her away someplace, maybe with Bobby, or at the Roadhouse, until they could finish this. But damnit, as much grief as she gave him, as painful as the permanent yearning she instilled in him was, she also gave both he and Sam something that they'd never had before. Somehow, as chaotic as she made their lives, as unsettling and infuriating as she could be, she made him feel, somehow secure. And Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that way. Not even before for his father had died, certainly not after. Reggie was the kind of person who, blended people, blended worlds, effortlessly.

She simply refused to see the incalculable chasm, the strict dichotomy between the world of the hunter, occupied by the Winchesters, and the rest of humanity. It wasn't that she didn't understand how and why they lived the way they did. In fact, Dean was pretty sure Reggie was the only non-hunter he'd ever met who really got it. But still, somehow, she brought into their lives a sense of normalcy. No, that wasn't it, not normal, that the Winchesters would never be, but somehow, she brought, rightness. Reggie seemed to carry a sense of 'home' with her. And when the three of them were together, Reggie bridging the gap between the brothers and the safe, normal world from which they had spent their whole lives alienated, he felt, oddly content. In spite of the gnawing greed for her that twisted inside him, in spite of the fact that the future was uncertain and teemed with enemies known and unknown, a landscape of probability rife with the threat of death and despair. Dean figured that maybe it was because Reggie who, by virtue of her gift was essentially a supernatural being, had spent her whole life living in that 'other', 'real' world, without ever feeling estranged. At least, not because of her power.

Either way, the simple truth was, he liked it. He liked the way she made him feel, and God knew, it did wonders for Sam. Between Reggie's cheerful presence and Cami's phone calls, his brother was lighter, more carefree, than Dean had seen him in months. He knew that eventually he would have to give Reggie up, have to return her to the life he had so abruptly yanked her from, but not yet. He knew that maybe it was selfish, and maybe it was stubborn, but he was sick of having to give up every good thing that came into his life. And for now, he didn't care if it was irrational or unwise, for now, he was keeping her.

Whistling through his teeth, Dean climbed out of the Impala and headed for Room 14. The bottom of his stomach dropped out and his heart stopped, when the door swung open to reveal an empty room.

In Room 1A, Reggie, who had her psychic senses perked and waiting, felt the sudden rush of Dean's alarm as soon as he discovered Room 14 was deserted. Before his panic could escalate, or gain any real momentum, she was throwing open the door to 1A and calling out to him. She saw his face darken, felt the swell of his indignant anger, and hurried back into the room. She was back by the door when he arrived and, as he opened his mouth, no doubt to let loose a blistering tirade about taking off without telling him etc., she popped a freshly made brownie between his parted lips.

So instead of yelling, Dean chewed, his expression morphing from furious to thoughtful.

The brownie was chock full of peanut M&Ms.


	59. Chapter 59

Author's Note: Hello all. I'd just like to say thanks for all the love people. You've gotten me over this little trip down anxiety lane marvelously. Enjoy!

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Still chewing, Dean took another step into the room and sniffed experimentally. There were two pots bubbling fitfully on the stove, and something smelled amazing.

As he swallowed, Reggie held out another chocolate peace offering.

"I'll trade you another brownie for that lecture you've got brewing" she cajoled, and Dean felt the vestiges of anger and fear dissolve.

"Hmmmmm" he pursed his lips, considering.

"What else have you got to offer?"

She smiled,

"Spaghetti and meatballs?"

"Sold" said Dean striding fully into the room, dumping the grease-stained MacDonald's bag directly into the trash and shedding his jacket and boots as he went, his eyes automatically scanning, making note of exits, checking that salt lines had been put properly in place. He strolled over to the stove and drew in a lungful of the aromatic steam rising from the pot of simmering red liquid. Fat, tempting looking balls of spiced pork floated happily in a rich, crimson coloured, herb infused sauce. Dean's mouth literally watered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real meal. One that hadn't come wrapped in tin foil or been whipped up as part of an industrial sized batch of whatever. Food that hadn't been microwaved or spent time under the drying rays of a heat lamp.

Even more than that, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had the luxury, the pleasure, of knowing that someone had spent the time and effort making a meal, _for him_. And it was somehow an intensely personal gift, and the pleasure in consuming it would be motivated by more than just the filling of empty stomachs with good food. It would be gilded at the edges by the little considerations that spoke of intimacy, of the knowledge and care which had gone into the process. Little details like the peanut M&M's in the brownie, or the fact that Reggie had used pork instead of beef in the meatballs because she knew that Sam preferred it. Not since his mother. And Dean's heart was squeezed tightly by the sudden bloom of a vivid memory, triggered by the fragrant scents carried on the billowing steam. He remembered exactly, how the sunlight would strike his mother's hair when it shone through their kitchen window as she bent over the table. How her hands felt as they guided his own small ones, which clutched the wooden spoon he was attempting to use to press a sticky mixture of marshmallow, butter and Rice Krispies into a glass baking dish.

The memory, for all its sudden, painful clarity, shattered like glass, evaporating instantly and leaving him breathless, when Reggie came up beside him and bumped his hip with her own, indicating he was in the way. Shaking himself, Dean turned away and threw himself into the chair on the opposite side of the small table at which Sam was sprawled. Blotting the apparition of the past from his mind, he rubbed his hands in anticipation and, looking at his brother, said,

"Doesn't smell like any spaghetti sauce I've ever had."

Sam shook his head, and his voice held a little note of wonder.

"S'not. Dude, it was awesome. She used _real_ _tomatoes_ and everything. No jars, no cans."

He sounded awed.

"You just, cut a little x in the bottom of 'em, and dip 'em in boiling water for a few seconds and pop! They just slide right out of their skins." He snapped his fingers to emphasize the ease of the procedure.

"And then I chopped them" he sounded proud of his contribution,

"And Reggie stuck them in the pot with all kinds of other stuff" he gestured at a small array of spice bottles which adorned the counter.

"And that was it!" He seemed somehow at a loss, that the mystery of cooking should be so easily unraveled.

Dean shook his head, only half listening, his eyes following Reggie as she stirred the sauce and checked the pasta in the second pot for doneness. He was a lot more interested in the eating part, than hearing about how the food was made.

"How much longer?" He couldn't mask his impatience.

Reggie smiled at him,

"Maybe five minutes."

He let out an exaggerated groan which made her laugh.

Turning back to the stove, she tried to stifle the urge to rub a hand over her aching heart.

She could feel their hunger so clearly, and it wasn't just the food that she was preparing that they craved. Both men hungered deeply for what the simple, nurturing, homey act symbolized. Care, love, family, home. Cooking for someone could be a very intimate thing. It was a labour by which the spirit as well as the body was nourished. That was part of the reason Reggie loved it so much. It was a bonding act, to cook and eat together. It helped to bring people together. Earlier, when Sam had been helping her, messily squeezing the seeds from peeled tomatoes, he'd gotten a faraway look in his eyes and spoken of Jessica. Told her how they'd neither of them been much for cooking, but that she'd made a mean chocolate chip cookie. It was the first time thoughts of his dead love had not been accompanied by slicing pain and vicious guilt. Only the gently bittersweet poignancy of remembrance. An acknowledgement of the truth that yes, remembering hurt, but forgetting would be far worse. Reggie had been able to sense quite clearly the little slivers of light jammed into the gaping maw of the beast that always loomed, threatening to devour Sam. She could easily put a name to each. Dean, Reggie, Camille. It had made her want to both smile and cry. That was how she felt now. Leaving the stove, she walked over to sling an arm around Sam's neck and muss the floppy mass of his hair. She risked a look at Dean across the table, they both knew she couldn't offer him the same physical solace, but she touched him gently with her eyes.

The need in him was so raw. The desire so desperate. A moment ago, when she'd glanced up to find Dean standing beside the stove, a wistful, bemused look on his face, she'd caught sight of a lost, sandy-haired little boy who was starved for the kind of affection and care, the sense of belonging and worth, that the big silver pots somehow promised.

He broke her heart. At least Sam had had Jess. However fleetingly, however much the loss had hurt, at least he'd had someone to fuss over and spoil him occasionally. Someone who provided the kind of tangible evidence of love, the attention and the indulgence that counted for so much. That special treatment that made you feel cherished. The kind of treatment and sensitivity Reggie was willing to bet had been more than a little lacking in the Winchester's mobile household while the boys were growing up, even though the love had been there. Especially for Dean. He would have tried, she knew, to give Sam some of the cosseting only his father could have provided for him, the kind that the gentle hands and soft smile of his mother had once offered, but now existed for the solitary soldier only in half-remembered dreams.

She wanted to go to him, climb into his lap and wind her arms around his neck. To press her lips against the place at the base of his neck where his pulse beat, and fill up the unbearably hollow void inside him. His spirit was riddled with ugly wounds, ruthlessly pierced by pitiless spears of betrayal and seared by the firebrand of guilt. Bruised by the brutal fist of fear and embedded with stabbing shards of anger and indignation. It was battered, left punctured by the continual assault of tragedy and loss, never given a chance to heal. But still, ragged and worn though it was, somehow, he was still strong enough to bear the weight of duty and love. In spite of everything, Dean went on, protecting Sam, saving the weak and the helpless. And she wanted to protect him in turn. Wanted to hold him until his damaged soul had finally had a chance to heal, but all she could offer was linguini. Still, she felt a tiny bubble of pleasure and satisfaction burst warmly within him when she set the plate in front of him. It was a start.

As Dean watched Reggie move around the kitchen with gleaming green eyes, he wished that he was allowed to want this. That he was allowed to imagine that one day, he would have a house with a big, bright kitchen that was the heart of a home. It would have lots of windows and an enormous wooden table, large enough to accommodate the army of friends and family who periodically came to share food and laughter, love and life. But sometimes there would only be Reggie, with her back to the door, humming softly while she fiddled with something on the stovetop. And he would slip in quietly and come up behind her, wrap his arms around her and press his face into her hair. And she would turn in his arms, sliding her own around his neck as she smiled into his eyes, rising easily up on her tiptoes and balancing against him as he bent his head. The kiss would begin gentle and undemanding, deepening slowly, by heated degrees, until there was as much hunger as ease, as much passion as love, and even though it was only the two of them, the room would still be full, and he would belong there, in that blissfully warm and homely place. But it was not permitted for him even to desire those things. The quiet wish occupied only the outermost edges of even his unconscious mind. A soundless sigh escaped him as the lacy gossamer wings of longing and regret fluttered, fleeting and familiar, almost unobtrusive, at the extremity of consciousness. It was no more than the dream of a dream. Far more dangerous than the most unlikely fantasy, and twice as impossible. What he was living now, this, comfortable togetherness, it was no more than a stolen moment amist a lifetime of alone, it wouldn't last. There was no home and no warm, loving woman with golden eyes in his future, only the road and the hunt.

Seated at the table, the empty plate which had contained her first and only serving of dinner in front of her, Reggie watched with barely contained amusement as Sam and Dean devoured their food. Their zealousness begged for a more aggressive adjective, they didn't just eat the pasta, they attacked it. You'd have sworn they hadn't eaten for a month. Watching their eagerness, seeing their satisfaction, had Reggie smiling with pleasure as Dean worked his way through a third helping of food. On the other side of the table, Sam easily kept pace. So much for leftovers. But her euphoria was short lived as she remembered the inexplicable, hushed sort of sadness she'd felt wash through Dean just before the meal began. It had vanished when the first full plate was set on the table, but it returned to haunt her now. It disturbed her, this muted sorrow, because she couldn't track it to any specific source, and the ache of it had stolen through him so quietly, she wondered if he had really even noticed it. It saddened her to think that whatever was hurting Dean was something so painful it could have neither name nor face in his conscious mind, and yet it was so much a part of him as to go all but unnoticed. She was distracted by Dean's grumble of displeasure. His plate was empty, again.

"More?" she demanded with mix of amused incredulity and exasperation.

Dean nodded enthusiastically, his mouth too full to speak, and Sam followed suit.

"Good grief!" she muttered as she rose to spoon out a fourth portion for each. Setting the plates on the table and returning to her seat, she was surprised to see Dean pause for breath before diving back into his dinner.

"Not that I'm complaining" he said,

"But somehow, I never pegged you for the domestic type."

Reggie raised her eyebrows,

"Are you implying that my feminist sensibilities should be offended by the stereotypical circumstance that has me, 'the little woman', cooking for you, 'the big manly men'?"

"Uh, something like that" he agreed.

Reggie shook her head.

"Nope. I believe in the division of labour. I love to cook and hate to clean so, this works out well for me."

Suddenly wary, Dean sat back,

"Division of labour?" he asked.

"Mmmhmmm." She responded, gesturing to the counter and the slew of pots, pans and cooking utensils.

"Who did _you_ think was gonna do all these dishes?"

"But…But, I do all the driving!" protested Dean, quickly adopting the 'division of labour' argument and making it work in his favour.

"Nu-uh" said Reggie, shaking her head.

"Nice try. But that doesn't count."

"Why the hell not?!" demanded Dean.

"Because" explained Reggie,

"You choose to make it that way. In fact, you insist. You won't _let_ me drive", she reminded him. It was an old argument between them.

Dean looked mutinous, but couldn't find a suitable counterargument for that. Reggie consistently offered to drive, and Dean just as consistently turned her down flat.

"Tough luck bro" said Sam, hastily pushing away from the table.

"Oh no you don't" snarled Dean, shooting up and jerking Sam back by the collar of his shirt.

"If _I'm_ doing it, _you're_ doing it."

Sam looked pleadingly at Reggie.

"Sounds fair to me" she agreed, quashing any hope of escape.

"Fine" Sam grumbled sullenly.

Half and hour later Reggie sat at the bottom of the room's large, king-sized bed and pretended to watch tv, while she really watched Sam and Dean. If she'd ever seen anything more adorable than a disgruntled looking Dean Winchester up to his elbows in soapy dishwater, his brow furrowed and his luscious mouth pressed into a sexy little pout, she couldn't name it. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud as she listened to the brothers bicker.

"No, no Dean" said Sam, just a wee bit patronizingly,

"First you do the glasses" he plunked them into the sink full of bubbles, taking a red-stained wooden spoon from Dean's hand.

"Then the plates, then the utensils, then the pots", he pointed to each in turn.

"See, you start with the least dirty things first and….", Dean's growl cut him off.

"You wanna do this?!" he demanded irritably.

"Nope" said Sam, backing off and brandishing a white and blue checked dish towel in front of himself.

"I'm drying."

"Oh yeah" Dean nodded,

"Remind me why that is again?"

"Because" answered Sam quickly,

"The last time we did dishes was when we were in Joliet in '96, hunting that banshee with Dad. And that time I did the washing, so, it's your turn."

"Whatever" said Dean, not prepared to argue with Sam's iron-clad memory. However, he did protest his brother's know-it-all attitude by unceremoniously dumping the dishes, plates, glasses, and utensils into the sink together in a jumbled disarray.

_Ah, the sounds of home_, thought Reggie to herself as the brothers wrangling turned from household matters to a heated argument about the best way to kill banshees.

Muttering obscenities under his breath, Dean examined his hands, made pruney by their long submersion in the warm, soapy water. Stalking over to where Reggie was sitting on the bed, he sank down onto the couch that stood along the wall next to the headboard. Sam headed out the door, his newly charged cell phone in hand.

"Are you going to make me do that every time you cook?" Dean whined a bit petulantly.

Reggie gave him an arch look over her shoulder,

"Yep."

He looked so forlorn that she relented,

"Well, maybe not _every _time."

Perking up a bit, Dean raised his eyebrows, noting that she hadn't contradicted the part of his comment that clearly implied this wouldn't be a one time deal.

"Does that mean that you're gonna cook again tomorrow?"

The querulous, hopeful note in his voice made her want to cuddle him. Sometimes, he was just too damn cute.

"Oh I think that could be arranged." She shoot him a speculative look.

It was the best damn news Dean had had all day. Still, he didn't miss her calculating look.

"What?" he demanded.

"Well, if I'm going to cook again, I'm going to need groceries. And that little corner store is ridiculously expensive."

Crossing his arms, Dean settled deeper into the couch, knowing she was leading up to suggesting something he wouldn't want to do, and preparing to negotiate on behalf of his stomach.

"What kind of groceries?"

"Well" said Reggie, observing the way Dean's eyes gleamed with interest he was trying to hide.

"Things we'd have to go to a real grocery store to get."

Dean groaned. He hated shopping! Of any kind. Seeing his face darken, Reggie hurried on,

"I was thinking maybe we could get some more baking stuff, and some vegetables and steak, and have a meat pie with mashed potatoes."

That did it. Dean tried not to show his enthusiasm, but his world-famous poker face was betraying him. He cleared his throat.

"And would I have to do dishes?"

She cocked her head to the side,

"Probably."

Dean could tell from her expression that she was not flexible on this point. Silently, he weighed the promise of home cooking against his bruised ego. It was no contest but, he wanted to see if he could sweeten the deal. Literally.

"And would you be making chocolate chip cookies?"

Reggie grinned,

"I think that could be arranged." Still smiling, she held out her hands in a questioning gesture,

"So, you gonna take me to the store tomorrow?"

"Hell yes!" replied Dean fervently, the promise of additional chocolate causing him to abandon any pretense of indifference.


	60. Chapter 60

Author's Note: Okay, I know, long time coming with the update again. But this time, I have a really good reason. There was a loss in my extended family this weekend, not anyone I knew very well, (my cousin's wife's grandfather in fact), but we're Italian, and that means doing a whole bunch of functions and stuff to support those who were close to him. So, I'm sorry, and I will post again tomorrow to make up for it. This is a chapter for all you Sam/Cami shipper's out there. I really only menat it to be short, but they kinda ran away with me. I'll see you tomorrow, same bat time, sme bat channel.

p.s. That was too much information wasn't it. Oh well.

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Outside, in the cool evening air, Sam bit his lip and listened to the phone ring in his ear. It was a Wednesday. That meant that technically, Cami should be at the lab until at least ten o'clock, feeding her fish or some damn thing. He purposefully allowed the fact that he had memorized her schedule to escape his notice. The truth was, he liked to be able to imagine where she was, what she was doing. Had been carefully gleaning and storing information about her life, her routine, her habits. He ached to know her in a real way. But all he could do was carefully lay out a course of straightforward questions and casual, probing observations, and wait like a starving stray, for her to throw out the scraps. Little glimpses into her life that he feed on like a starving animal, tucking them away in his brain so at a later time, when he was cold and feeling alone, when the nightmare within seethed in warning, he could fall out of himself and into her. Right now, on a Wednesday, at...8:30, he paused to calculate the time difference, she would be working busily away in a sterile, white room somewhere.

Monochromatic lab benches would be blending into walls, and large tanks of water filled with bored, experimental fish would be sitting centre stage, the bubbles from the many filters filling the studious, scientific silence with a quiet, breathy burble. Cami would add to the quiet melody of discovery, her pencil scratching across a page decorated with a carefully designed chart. It would contain a column and a row for each corresponding tidbit of crucial data, all the variables having been worked out in Cami's agile brain long before the tubes and chemicals and fish eggs had been built into a sophisticated apparatus of scientific exploration. And then there would be Cami herself, and her stark white labcoat wouldn't quite be able to conceal the fact that she didn't exactly reflect, didn't fit, the cool, antiseptic environment. Even the harsh, humming flourescent lights wouldn't be able to bleach out the colour and life that radiated from her.

Reggie had once told him that Cami had a penchant for stripes and rainbow coloured socks. It was how he always saw her. Tonight, he imagined she would be wearing little lime coloured capris against the unexpected spring heatwave May had brought to New York, her tee-shirt a cheery pink and white horizontal stripe. Her thick masses of curling, honey-coloured hair would be pinned up, messily most likely, and the wild knot with its escaping wisps would strike her as a good place to haphazardly store her pencil as she walked from one end of the room to another, her warm brown eyes serious as she checked an unexpected result. Sam was so lost in the little scene he'd built in his mind, that he almost dropped the phone when Cami's voice suddenly echoed over the line.

"Hello, Hello, _Hello_? The last word held a note of exasperation.

"Cami!" Sam blurted loudly, trying to untangle his mind from the fantasy and force his tongue to work before she hung up.

"Sam?" There was pleasure in her voice when she said his name, it made something warm and forbidden tingle up his spine.

"Uh, yeah, it's me." he responded, feeling the onslaught of the verbal clumsiness that always overtook him when he heard that animated voice float to him across the miles, felt a flutter and a clench in his stomach that made him both afraid, guilty, and most unbearably of all, hopeful. You could _hear_ the loveliness of her, in a way he often wondered if he would have _seen_ it, had he gotten to know her in a more conventional way.

"Hey!" The salutation was bright, glad.

"I didn't think I would hear from you today. You weren't there when I talked to Reggie earlier. She said something about sending you back to the store for garlic?"

Sam grimaced. No, he hadn't been there, and when he'd returned from the store and found out he'd missed her call, he'd told himself that he wouldn't give in and call her back. That he needed to find some distance, some room to breath because, in spite of all the miles and all the lies between them, she was suddenly and unexpectedly close to his heart. Too close, dangerously close. Shaking himself, Sam hurried to answer her.

"Uh, yeah" he said again, wanting to smack himself for being so inarticulate.

"She was making pasta sauce. Said you just couldn't do it without garlic, and that I'd have to go back" he was quick to fill in the details. He could practically hear her nodding, see the amused, affectionate smile he heard in her voice.

"Yup, that sounds like my girl. So she's finally gotten around to cooking eh? You lucky buggers. I wondered how long she'd be able to hold out."

Sam raised his eyebrows even though he knew she couldn't see the gesture, knew that she would be envisioning his facial expressions as accurately as he did hers.

"You knew she could cook?"

Cami snorted,

"She can cook? Sam, the woman is practically a gourmet. She used to put on a three course meal for ten to fifteen people every weekend when she was here. When I heard you guys were eating nothing but fast food, I knew it wouldn't be long before she cracked. To her, that would be like torture. Oh God," there was a rapturous kind of remembering in Cami's voice,

"Has she made turtle bars yet?"

"What?" asked Sam.

"Nevermind" said Cami,

"If she had, you'd know it. They're a life changing experience."

Sam's grin was a mile wide. God, no one had ever been able to make him feel so at ease, so ...normal, even though he wasn't. Even though he was in the middle of the most terrifying and dire supernatural mess of his life, where he was the monster he feared the most, rather than some unnamed, soon to be slain, enemy lurking in the darkness. Craving to simply hear her voice again, because it kept such thoughts at bay, he asked,

"So, what are you doing home so early? Shouldn't you still be at the lab?"

"Oh yeah" a huffing chuckle.

"Well, this week has just been hell, and there was such a friggin' mess with the fish today! I swear, I just packed it in early. I'll go back in tomorrow and set it all to rights, but for today, I'd just had enough, ya know?"

No, he didn't know. Sam didn't get to know. In his line of work, you didn't get to pack it in early and just take a break because your system was taxed to the breaking point and your brain was a blur. If you did that, someone might die. Someone that you could have saved. But Sam couldn't unburrden those dark thoughts to Cami, wanted to keep her safe from, and ignorant of, the frightening world he lived in. Although, he knew that by now, she'd figured out that there was something pretty weird, and very dangerous, going on. But, since she couldn't pry so much a tiny hint out of Reggie or Sam as to the nature of their troubles, she did the next best thing, and tried to keep their minds off it. Even so, Sam knew what question would be coming next.

"So, where are you?" Cami asked.

It never failed. Every time they spoke she would ask him, and every time it made his heart both lighter, and sadder. He was always tempted to ask her what she would do if he told her. Did she ask out of routine, out of politeness, out of stubbornness? Or did she ask because she really wanted to know? In Sam's most secret fantasies, the ones he didn't even acknowledge to himself, she asked because she wanted to come to him. And in his dreams, she did. He imagined that one night he let it slip that they were in Texas, or Nevada, or Wisconsin, or wherever, and when he awoke the next morning, she was standing on his dusty, motel doorstep, wearing a smile on her face and carrying love in her heart. Enough love that it wouldn't matter who he was and what he was doing. What he had done. The kind of love that wouldn't ask the unanswerable questions, and when the truth came out, as it always did, wouldn't run screaming for the door. In his heart, Sam wanted to believe that Cami was capable of that. That all the strength and stubbornness, all that fierce loyalty and bravery, the kind that fueled a love for Reggie so strong, it allowed Cami to accept the fact that her best friend had taken off across the country with two men she didn't know, doing something that was clearly dangerous and covert, for an undetermined period of time, and never waver, could belong to him as well. She stood unerringly fast beside her friend, metaphorically speaking of course, and Sam wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, Cami would be able to stand beside him.

The real him. The Sam Winchester who had lost his mother to a demon and had been raised a hunter. The Sam Winchester who had been taught things from the cradle most of the world never knew. The Sam Winchester who had been robbed of the normal life he longed for, and his first love, by the same demon...and that thought stopped Sam cold. No, he didn't want that, not any of it. Not love, not a home, not a normal life, if it meant for one second, putting Cami in the kind of danger he'd put Jess in. The kind that killed. He couldn't survive another loss like that, and the mere thought had him shoving aside the little flare of hope, the rambling tangent of fantasy, quashing even the tiny voice that insisted it had been partly ignorance that had made Jess vulnerable, that Cami could handle the truth. He threw the sparks of possibily into the yawning pit of blackness inside him, drowned them, smothered them. They were too dangerous. He couldn't ask it of her. Wouldn't, it wasn't fair. So, Sam picked up the fish conversation instead.

"So, what happened with the fish?"

"Hmmmm" said Cami absently.

"The fish" repeated Sam.

"Oh" she sighed,

"Disaster. They're all either dying or escaping."

"Escaping?" Sam laughed.

"What, you're telling me you've got a bunch of aquatic Steve McQueens on your hands?"

She laughed and Sam's smile reappeared.

"Yeah, something like that. I think they're going down the big filter tubes at the back of the tanks. Anyway, all in all, it's just been really frustrating. I'm going to have to breed a whole new batch of fry and start the experiment from scratch."

"That's too bad" Sam sympathized.

"Ah well" Cami philosophized stoically,

"Luckily for me, fish have some of the most prolific, if bizarre, mating habits."

Sam choked on a laugh. But her comment made him think back to earlier that week, when he'd confronted Dean after he'd absconded with Reggie. He couldn't help but think that "fish out of water" was a damn accurate way to describe his brother's strange and uncharacteristic behaviour.

"Hey Cami" he said, as inspiration struck,

"Can I ask you something about Reggie?"

There was a pause,

"You can ask Sam, I can't promise to answer. One, it may be something it isn't my place to tell, and two, you have to understand that, as close as Reggie and I are, I may not know. She doesn't exactly...trust easily."

Sam nodded at the phone,

"Yeah, I've noticed. This wasn't my original question but, I don't suppose you could shed any light on that? Why she'll sleep on me, listen to my deepest darkest fears and give me some of the best advice I've ever gotten..." _Help me to learn to control my powers and save my life_, he added silently to the list,

"Would trust me with her life, but wouldn't trust me with her problems as far as she could throw me?"

Cami heaved a heavy sigh.

"No Sam, I can't tell you that, for both of the aforementioned reasons. One, I don't know the whole story, and two, those are her secrets to tell, or not."

Sam nodded again,

"But that's the thing, I kinda think she is trusting someone."

"What! " Cami exclaimed, her shock evident.

"Who? You?"

Sam cleared his throat, he knew how this was going to sound,

"Ummm, I think, maybe, she's trusting, Dean. A little." He hastened to qualify the statement because Cami was already protesting.

"No way Sam. Sorry, nothing against your brother, but he is NOT the kind of guy Reggie usually...well, he's the kind of guy she normally avoids like the plague, if you want the blunt truth. I mean, he's arrogant and over-bearing, a real smart ass, totally insensitive.."

"Hey" Sam protested, feeling like he had to defend his brother.

"He's...complicated. Dean's a good man Cami. Really, he's just, got a warped sense of...well, a lot of things." A pause.

"Okay, _most_ things. But he'd never hurt her." Pause.

"On purpose. And, and, I think she likes him."

Cami still wasn't buying it.

"Sam, I'm telling you, your brother is the kind of guy that wants, well, one thing from women, and it is something he is most definitely NOT getting from Reggie. I can tell you that right now."

"But that's what I'm _saying_" said Sam, running an agitated hand through his hair.

"He, he's not acting normally. He, he hasn't hit on her _at all_. And earlier this week, he took off with her so they could have a "little chat". I mean, you have no idea how weird that is!"

"Hmmmm" said Cami, reevaluating a bit. It did strike her as odd, the way Reggie almost never spoke to her about Dean.

"And what did Reggie do?"

Sam shrugged,

"She told me that they worked some stuff out and not to worry, but, but. I swear to GOD. Being around them is like getting caught in an electrical storm. They're so hyper aware of one another, it's painful."

"Wait, wait" said Cami, sounding a bit breathless,

"Are you telling me that you think Reggie, _likes your brother!_ As is, is attracted to him?!"

"Well jeez" said Sam,

"It's not like that's so impossible Cami. Have you seen the way women act around my brother?"

"Not Reggie" came the immediate reply.

And Sam had to admit, she was right there. Initially, Reggie hadn't seemed to want anything to do with Dean, but lately...No, Sam was sure he was right.

"The thing is..." he huffed out a breath, a bit embarrassed to be having this conversation with her.

"The thing is Cami. Dean deserves some happiness. He deserves to catch a break. He's.." Sam's voice softened, deepened,

"He's had a pretty hard go of it." Sometimes, he forgot, caught up in the midst of his own crisis, and in the face of Dean's constant flippancy and calm, solid presence, what his brother had suffered.

" I mean, back when I thought he just wanted to get in her pants, I wasn't so keen on the idea myself. I promise you, I would never want to see Reggie get hurt, but now, now, I'm just not sure. I think, I think he might really like her, like, love like her." he continued.

Sam could barely believe what he was saying but, as the words came out, he had to admit, he'd been suspicious for awhile, and it just, made sense. As unlikely a pair as the sweet, intellectual, psychic girl and his demon-hunting, bad-ass brother were, they might just strike perfect balance. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Maybe Reggie could convince Dean that hunting was no way to live. Coax him back into the normal, safe world. That was, if they ever got out of this mess. And, he thought darkly, he didn't want Dean to be alone. Sam knew that there was a chance, a good chance, that he wouldn't walk away from the apocalyptic battle he was positive he and Dean were destined to fight in. Knew that with no one there to help him, to force him to go on, Dean might very well give up and die with Sam, unable to accept the fact that he couldn't save his baby brother. It wasn't that Sam didn't have all the faith in the world in Dean. He believed absolutely that Dean could protect him from almost anything, but he wasn't so sure if even Dean, could protect him from himself. And Sam was very much afraid that he was his own worst enemy. That the evil they sought, was hiding somewhere inside him. But maybe, if Dean had Reggie, he could do what needed to be done, and still manage to go on. Sam couldn't bear to think that the darkness inside him might destroy not only him, but also his brother.

Cami's voice once again cut into his somber thoughts.

"So, are you telling me that after pulling a little stunt like that with Reggie, your brother is still breathing?" she demanded.

"Uh, yeah." said Sam confused.

"Why? You sound surprised."

"I am" she admitted, her tone now speculative.

"Most people who tried something like that would have wound up having their ass handed to them. Reggie looks sweet and talks softly, but believe me, that is one woman you _do not_ want to cross."

Thinking about the way Reggie had dealt with the treespirit and the maniacal ghost of Richard Hutchon, Sam had no trouble believing it.

"Yeah, so..."

"So" said Cami,

"I have to admit, that that's unusual behaviour for her. But, she's got a really soft heart, if your brother is as much of a kicked puppy in wolf's clothing as you say he is, then it could just be her soft side getting the better of her. It happens all the time. She forever taking in strays, of the two and four legged variety."

Sam smiled at that image. Thought of Reggie smiling as she watched the brother's bolt down the meal she'd made, of her smoothing and opening the stilted relationship between them... yeah, that's exactly what she'd done. She'd taken a floppy eared mutt and his half-savage, wolfish brother under her wing.

"Shit" he muttered, realizing for a moment that as hard as he'd been trying to avoid falling for Cami, Reggie'd slipped right passed his defenses and into a previously unoccupied "little sister" slot he hadn't known existed in his heart.

"What's the matter?" asked Cami.

"Nothing" Sam sighed. In fact, for the first time in a long time, something felt just a little bit right. As if he had just discovered that the family he had mourned his whole life, actually existed. It just, looked a little different than he'd pictured it. It made him all the more determined to fight, and even if he couldn't win, he was going to make damn sure that Dean survived. It was one thing he could do, to pay his brother back for, well, for everything.

"I'm serious about this Cami. What should I do? You know, to get them together?"

"Easy there cowboy" said Cami immediately.

"Look, I still don't know if I buy this Dean Reggie thing, but, if you're right, then believe me, Reggie is seriously freaking out right now. At the first sign of pressure, she'll bolt."

Sam was bobbing his head eagerly, absorbing the information.

"The best thing you can do, is stay out of it" Cami concluded.

"What?" said Sam dismayed.

"I'm serious Sam." She said, and the intensity in her voice backed up the claim.

"You have no idea what a big step this is for her. Going blundering around and executing misguided matchmaking attempts will _not_ help!"

"Hey" said Sam, feeling a bit offered.

"How do you know they'll be blundering!"

"Sam honey, don't take this the wrong way" Cami replied,

"But, you're a man. That's how I know."

There was a certain ageless wisdom in that statement, and Sam was man enough not to deny.

"Okay. But, isn't there anything I can do?"

"Well..." Cami conceded unwillingly,

"You could, when a _subtle_ opportunity presents itself, try to get them to spend as much time together as possible."

"Uh, right" responded Sam, wondering how Reggie and Dean, who already spent most of their time cooped up together in the Impala or dingy motel rooms, the tension between them almost palpable, could be made to comply with that suggestion without upping the body count.

On the other end of the line, he caught the unmistakable sound of a yawn, and immediately felt guilty. Just because he was plagued by insomnia, didn't mean other people didn't keep regular hours.

"Sorry" he apologized quickly,

"I should let you go." The words held a painful double meaning for him.

"Oh, not yet" protested Cami.

"I haven't finished telling you about the fish."

Sam knew he should hang up, but, what harm could fish do?

"Okay" he said, a shade too eagerly.

It was a long time before either was able to end the call. When the line finally went dead, Cami sat on her bed and looked at the phone. She had never in her life, heard silence the like of that which followed in the wake of Sam's voice. When that sound faded, others simply ceased to register, to exist. Her world was silent. It was the sound of distance, of Sam not trusting her, not telling her. It was the sound, she thought, of untouchable. He would let her reach out, sometimes, he even reached back, but he was always just a little too far away. But it was too late. Whatever he thought, whatever this distance he insisted on was supposed to protect her from, she already loved. Every time he hung up, her head whispered the question her heart violently protested. She knew Sam was doing something dangerous, and that he was very, very afraid. All the light banter and fish in the world couldn't change that.

_Dear God_ she whispered silently, as she always did,

_Don't let that be the last time I hear his voice._


	61. Chapter 61

Author's Note: Hey guys. Sorry. I was visiting my friend on the east coast and she was getting ready to come home, and the first thing she packed, was her computer! Who does that! So, I was unexpectedly cut off. But, back now, and this chapter is long. I shan't make any more promises about updating because I never seem to be able to keep them, but I will say that I intend, to update again soon. Also, the lack of computer is why I haven't responded to reviews yet, which I will do asap. Thanks for all the nice comments thought guys. I love Sam and Cami too! But for now, back to Dean Reggie, things are really nearing their breaking point. Enjoy.

Back in the room, the ominous voice of a cello echoed forebodingly from the television screen, where a scene designed to chill the blood and send shivers up the spine, was unfolding. The sparsely attired heroine was in danger, the mysterious, shadowy figure of the killer was closing in, and Dean was killing himself laughing. Glancing at him covertly from her perch at the end of the bed, Reggie shook her head. He was sprawled over the couch, his large, muscular body dwarfing it, a striking contrast to the florid, floral femininity of the upholstery. Sometimes he was so simple, she thought to herself, as he lounged, thoroughly enjoying the blatant awfulness of the formulaic horror movie and demonstrated his impressive ability to make food disappear with alarming speed by demolishing the last brownie.

Reggie felt a smile stretch over her own face at his next bark of macabre delight. She loved the sound of his laugh, and always marveled at how easily the deep, rolling sound of his amusement could lift her own spirits, how much that exuberant chuckle, which was always laced with the suggestion of wickedness, could say. His past was a tapestry of tragedy, his life a study in darkness, but Dean was not. Despite the shadows within, he found ways to patch the fissures carved into his soul. He dealt with it very differently from Sam. He ploughed on ahead with something of a reckless abandon, having learned, perhaps because he'd had so few opportunities for fun in his life, to exuberantly embrace every opportunity for laughter, for enjoyment. Dean played the way he did everything else, hard. And he was playing now. Whatever the melancholy that had clouded his energy earlier had been, it was gone. Now he was bright and lively and infectious. His jade eyes dancing.

"If you think it's so bad, why do you watch it?" she asked him as he chortled gleefully over the grisly demise of a foolish, stalwart teenager.

Looking over, he smiled. That smile. The one that, cliché of clichés, made her just a bit weak in the knees. It was full of knowledge and amusement.

"That's the whole point" he explained.

"It's funny _because_ it's bad, and that's why I like it."

Reggie raised her eyebrows,

"So, it doesn't have anything to do with whastername, Carmen Electra there" she gestured to the exotic, curvaceous woman screaming bloody blue murder on the screen, clad only in scanty lingerie,

"And her wardrobe, or rather, lack thereof?"

Dean looked at the screen in a measuring, appreciative kind of way,

"Doesn't hurt" he admitted with a sly, cheeky grin, completely unrepentant, never taking his eyes from the television. While he watched the movie, Reggie watched him.

The flickering light played over his face, leaving her unable to tear her eyes from the seductive curl of his mouth. She thought about how much she'd like to bite him, just there, where his bottom lip curved, evidence of his light mood. To see how his laughter tasted on her tongue.

_Damnit!_ And she'd been doing so well tonight, Reggie thought to herself ruefully. Had actually managed to distract herself, to some degree, with the welcome chore of cooking and the poignant delight the brother's had taken in the meal. Focusing on their pain, on their loss, she'd effected a reprieve from her uncomfortably intense desire for Dean. For all of six hours. Feeling a familiar heat flood through her as her eyes traveled caressingly over the long lines of his reclining body, Reggie squeezed them shut and gave herself a little mental smack.

_Stop it!_ She chided herself. She opened her eyes again just in time to see Dean stretch. The flex and play of muscle under smooth golden skin made her mouth dry as he arched his back and neck, and pushed his hands above his head. It was all she could do not to crawl over, drop to her knees beside the sofa, and run her lips and tongue over the exposed column of his throat. There was something staggeringly alluring about seeing a body she knew housed so much power, so much deadly skill, so at ease, so utterly relaxed. He was so beautiful. Like some great, satiated cat. All careless, muscular grace and lazy elegance.

_Oh hell_! she thought, irritated with her own lack of control, feeling a now habitual tingling spread through her. Her fingers were itching to touch him. _Time for a strategic retreat._ Shooting up forcefully off the bed, and careful to keep her eyes diverted from the beguiling, feline temptation of Dean's body, and worse, the unbearable lure of his slow, lazy, self-satisfied grin, she snagged her overnight bag and retreated into the bathroom.

Once safe behind the closed door, Reggie sank onto the floor cross-legged and pressed her face to the cool tile wall. All she had to do was _look_ at the man, and she got physically over-heated. It wasn't normal, it wasn't safe, it wasn't rational, and most of all, it wasn't _fair_! Ever since that day in the car, Dean had barely looked at her. Not in that way. With the kind of heat that made her toes curl. And she should have been grateful, that he was so obviously finding it easy to keep his word, because she sure as hell wouldn't have been much help on the resistance front. But she wasn't grateful, she was, she was…._piqued_, irritated. Reggie was honest enough with herself to admit it. She resented the fact that he had her all tied up in hot, needy knots without even trying, while he walked around as if there had never been so much as an inkling of anything between them. And, she had to admit, some of it was ego too.

Now that he wasn't acting as though he wanted her, now that the immediate and tangible threat his desire had presented to her was gone, she could acknowledge that on some level, she had liked it, being wanted by a man like Dean, not matter how general or unspecific the attraction. And part of her wanted to know if _she_, Reggie, could make him want her again. The logical part of her brain was talking very loud and fast to the rest of her. Telling her that the only reason she would ever even consider what she was currently considering, was because she felt safe, because she believed Dean when he said he wouldn't touch her. For the first time, she was being presented with an opportunity to test her own feminine allure, because he had released her from the fear of onerous, dangerous consequences. _But that's not fair to him!_ Said her conscience. _To try and tempt him because you want to see if you can, but only because you know he's too noble to break the promise he made to you, and so nothing will come of it._

Looking into her bag, Reggie gazed at a familiar pair of soft, shell pink, baby doll pajamas. Unbidden, she saw Dean in her mind's eye, his eyes a blaze of emerald, traveling hotly over her body, clad in his black cotton shirt. She trembled now as she had then, heat pooling in her stomach, goosebumps racing over her skin, as she thought of what that look had promised. She wanted him to look at her like that again. She bit her thumb. It wasn't as if she was going to parade around in a negligee. In fact, if she hadn't adjusted her habits because of Dean's presence, she would have been wearing the pajamas all along, instead of yoga pants and long sleeve t-shirts. It was May! Even though it wasn't particularly hot yet, it was perfectly reasonable to start wearing cooler pajamas. Taking the tank-top and shorts out of the bag, she eyed them, rationalizing. The shorts were hardly indecent, they would come to mid-thigh, just. And the tank was just your average top, though the material had a satiny texture and a subdued shine. So what if the hem of the shorts and the shirt were trimmed with a bit of pink lace, and so what if there was a tiny bow adorning the modest vee neck.

The point was, the pj's were cute and casual. They certainly hadn't been designed to seduce anyone, and that certainly wasn't what Reggie had had in mind when she'd bought them, not ever really believing that she would have anyone to seduce. Shaking her head, she almost laughed at herself. It was sad really, that she should get so worked up over the idea of wearing a pair of shorts and a tank-top in front of Dean, when lots of people routinely wore less clothing as a matter of daily course. And it was foolish of her to think that the mere sight of her in such _scandalous_ attire, would have any effect whatsoever on a man as experienced as Dean. Reggie mocked herself. _It's time to get a grip_. She would wear the pajamas, but because it was time for her to stop being so silly, not because she wanted to see if Dean's eyes would darken and heat when she walked into the room.

Dean sighed deeply and settled more firmly into the cushions of the couch. It may have been nine kinds of hideous, but it was comfortable. Comfortable. That was a good word for his general state of mind just now. His stomach was full, his body was relaxed, and his mind was pleasantly distracted by the amusingly inane entertainment of a cheesy horror movie. His favourite. Slipping into a contented kind of half doze, Dean barely noticed when the bathroom door creaked open.

Reggie shook her limbs lightly as she opened the bathroom door. Trying to ease away some of the tension that coiled in her belly and tightened her muscles. She told herself firmly that she would not creep into the room like some sort of thief in the night, and she would _not_ look to see what Dean's reaction to her outfit was. She would just act normally. For crying out loud, was it so hard for her to do that! Still, relief swept through her when she saw that his eyes were closed as she made her way into the room, and she couldn't stop herself from rising onto her tiptoes as she moved towards the bed, hoping that she could be in and under the covers before he was the wiser.

Hearing Reggie's covet rustling, Dean cracked a lazy eye, and nearly choked. Even in the low light cast by the tv, he could see her clearly. His breath thickened and his body reacted with shocking swiftness. Taken by surprise and trying desperately to get a grip on his suddenly ravenous body, Dean attempted to reason with himself. It was nothing. Nothing at all. She was just wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top. He'd seen women walking down the street in a helluva lot less. It was completely innocent, the outfit almost sweet, and certainly not as sexy as hell. No, not in the least he assured himself, eyes riveted to her small form. This was ridiculous. _It's nothing!_ He repeated to himself.

The hell it was.

On some level Dean knew that his assessment of the pajamas as casual and innocuous would have been accurate, had it been any woman but Reggie wearing them, but on her….. He tried to concentrate on breathing, told himself that he should look away, close his eyes. But he couldn't. God, she was gorgeous. The sumptuous, blatant sexuality of her body, which was so often concealed beneath bulky or unassuming clothing, was alluringly, but not overtly, showcased. The material of the top and shorts was fine and soft, and it clung gently to the full, generous curves of her breasts, skimming lightly down her torso, showing off the tiny waist. The little shorts left almost the full length of long, shapely legs naked. But it wasn't just all those obvious things.

It was the striking contrast between her voluptuous body and the lovely, fresh face. The gentle, unconscious curve of full lips and the increasingly powerful shimmer of heat evident in faintly slanted golden eyes when she looked at him, that spoke of an undiscovered but intensely deep and genuine sensuality. Dean thought he would kill to know that he would be the man who unlocked that tightly controlled fire. Who stripped away those inhibitions and taught her about the soul-searing pleasure that lush body had been designed to give, and to receive. It was the way that the soft rose fabric became outrageously erotic when it lay against her fine, creamy skin. The way the graceful curve of her neck and the smooth, tempting slope of her bare white shoulders, adorned with the flirtatious decoration of pink lace straps, practically begged for the hot, desperate touch of his mouth, the slow, sweeping stroke of his hands. Then there was the little bow that nestled between the globes of her breasts. He wanted to press his nose to that spot, to lightly nuzzle her breasts through the satin, turning his face from side to side, caressing her, stroking his cheeks against her soft skin.

Dean's breathing was harsh but low, his heart pounded violently, though his body was tense and still and, in some distant part of his mind, he realized he was lying in wait, like some sort of predator. Waiting for her to come around the bed as she prepared to climb in. To come within his reach. And, he realized, he had every intention of pouncing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could to do about it, his body had been claimed by a powerful, primitive instinct. He was hunting. Dean's eyes gleamed in the fake, electronic twighlight cast by the television as he watched Reggie walk toward him, unaware of his devouring eyes on her. He was, at long last, going to make a meal of her.

Dean wasn't sure who jumped higher, him, or Reggie, when the door to the room suddenly banged open, breaking the stillness, jolting Dean to his feet and out of the grip of primal desire.

"Hey guys" Sam's eyebrows rose when he took in his brother's dark expression and Reggie's choice of pajamas.

"Nice pj's" he said.

"Ummm, yes, well, it's hot." Reggie groaned inwardly. She sounded like she was defending herself to a grand jury and it wasn't, hot that was. She shouldn't be apologizing to anyone for wearing the damn things. They were _just_ pajamas. Quickly, she finished clamoring into the bed and yanked the covers up, before changing the subject.

"How was Cami?"

Sam's smile held a trace of something bittersweet she couldn't quite name.

"She's good" was all he said. Then,

"I'm really tired, are you guys ready to turn in?"

Reggie spread her hands, indicating her position in the bed.

"Yup."

They both turned to look at Dean.

He swallowed hard. The ease of the evening had evaporated the moment he'd opened his eyes to find Reggie wearing the little pink pajamas that left just enough to his _very_, overactive imagination. He knew that there was not way in hell he should climb into that bed with her tonight.

"Uh, sure." Inspiration struck,

"Why don't I take the couch Sam, it's way to short for you" he offered graciously.

Sam frowned. The couch was also too short for Dean, and for his brother to show such solicitousness was unusual, and he looked very uncomfortable. Was there a trace of panic in Dean's eyes?

Then Sam smiled. He thought he saw one of those, subtle opportunities Cami was talking about.

"No, that's okay. I don't mind curling up and besides, I don't want to bruise Reggie again."

Dean crossed his arms. _Fuck!_ What was he supposed to say to that? '_Either you bruise her or I screw her?'_

A new voice joined the conversation,

"There's an easy solution" said Reggie,

"There is one person in this room who isn't to short for the couch" she pointed to herself.

"And we're supposed to share the bed?!" demanded Dean. He was desperate, but not that desperate. However, he was surprised when Sam beat him to the punch, voicing an adamant,

"No way!"

"Okay, okay" Reggie held out her hands and leaned back, startled by his vehemence.

"Suit yourselves. You can hash it out between you who gets the neck cramps, I'm going to sleep."

And with a little huff, she flopped down in the bed and rolled over, putting her back to the two men.

Dean looked at Sam. His brother had that stubborn jut to his chin. Hell, when Sam decided to be stubborn, he was as bad as….._Well_, thought Dean ruefully, _He's as bad as me. _Sam confirmed Dean's suspicions by planting his butt firmly on the tulip-covered cushions of the couch and putting his feet up. His posture and expression clearly said, 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Muttering under his breath, Dean threw up his hands and stomped into the bathroom. He changed into boxers and a matching black tee-shirt, all the while trying to tell himself that he could do this, he could handle it. He could spend the night lying next to the woman he wanted more than he had ever wanted any other and not touch her. Even when the wicked temptation of her delectable body was lying right beside him. Her soft flesh covered by a few meager scraps of enticingly soft, 'I'm just begging to be brushed aside' fabric. Stalking back out to the bed, he stood beside the left side of the mattress where she lay, and took a moment to shoot a killing look at Sam who had bent his body almost in two, in order to fit on the small sofa, and his feet still hung off the end. _Good_. Thought Dean with scathing satisfaction, _I hope he's so stiff tomorrow he can't stand. _Because Dean knew that any physical discomfort Sam might experience on the couch wasn't going to come close to the intense, personal hell he was going to endure resisting a nearly naked Reggie.

"Move over." He knew his voice was unnecessarily terse.

She looked over her shoulder at him and blinked in surprise.

"What?"

"Move over" he repeated.

Reacting to his curt tone, she snapped,

"Why?"

"Because, this side is closest to the door."

"Oh." She murmured. It was true, she hadn't been thinking, Dean always slept in the bed closest to the door, on the side closest to the door. First line of protection, last line of defense.

Reggie said nothing but scooted over.

Grumbling, Dean slid in beside her. Positioning himself on his back he braced himself and, staring at the ceiling, lay stiff and silent, waiting for the sweet, tempting onslaught he knew was coming. It was almost an hour of tense anticipation before he heard the distinctive, slow pattern of sleep overtake Reggie's breathing. The first time she rolled against him, he took the hands that reached out to him and gently but firmly tucked them back against her own body. The second time, he went as far as to lift and slide her, in one smooth motion, away from him to the other side of the bed. Not that it made any difference. Ten minutes later, she was back. And so it went for several hours, with Dean softly rebuffing each of Reggie's oblivious but persistent attempts to embrace him. His refusal left her fitful and thrashing, but still, he persevered. He should have know it couldn't last. Eventually, exhausted by the constant strain of denied desire and vigilance, with Reggie safely on the other side of the bed, he fell into sleep.

He awoke suddenly, how much later he didn't know, to a sensory barrage. Reggie had once again rolled against him and the warm weight of her was tucked along his side. She had one arm wrapped around his chest. Feeling him shift, she murmured incoherently and resettled herself against him, tightening her grip, as if daring him to reject her again, and locked their bodies more closely together, slipping her left leg between his own. The electric bite of want snapped through him as her smooth, bare leg slid with delicious friction against his own, lightly-furred limbs, long and slow, sending a shot of pure lust into his bloodstream and straight to his groin. And, while he was still reeling, the hand that had lain against his chest stroked a slow path downward, until her caressing fingers found the stripe of hot, bare flesh at his waist, exposed where his tee-shirt had ridden up a bit. Making a sleepy sound of discovery, her palm skimmed up, under the material and over the tight muscles of his stomach. Her touch causing them to quiver, and then clench, when those fingers feathered down, along the edge of his boxers where skin met fabric, coming to rest provocatively just below his navel. Dangerously close to his throbbing arousal. Dean struggled for breath, for reason, for control.

He wanted to grab that tormenting hand and force it beneath the elastic waistband of the black boxers which housed flesh rigid with need for her. To wrap her cool fingers around his aching erection and, fitting his large hand over her small one, teach her how to squeeze and stroke his hard length, how to tease and rub the smooth head, until he was bucking up wildly against her innocent and eager touch. He imagined reaching out and sinking a hand into her silky hair, pulling her head back so he could pour his hoarse, desperate growl of release into her mouth as his body shuddered, surging between her fingers in agonized pleasure, when the painfully acute desire that had been coiling viciously inside him for months, finally exploded.

"_Shit!"_ Dean snarled aloud when he surfaced from the visceral fantasy to find his hand covering Reggie's where it lay against the hot skin of his abdomen, slowly inching it downward toward his straining cock. He shot up into a sitting position, dislodging Reggie and jarring her awake.

Letting out a tiny gasp of surprise, Reggie found herself abruptly torn from the arms of a heated dream she couldn't quite remember, as her body was roughly jostled in the bed. Struggling to collect her scattered consciousness, she opened her eyes and saw Dean. He was sitting up beside her, his broad shoulders tight with tension, his body taut with it, his breathing ragged. A sharp, constricting unease edged with jerky agitation rolled off him in sweeping waves of strain, crashing over her muzzy senses.

"Dean?" she asked, sitting up.

At the sound of her voice his head turned. She knew he was looking at her, but his face was concealed by shadows.

And that was a good thing, because the dark, dangerous intensity that she would have seen there, as he stripped her with burning eyes, would have frightened her.

When he heard her whisper his name, her tone low and husky with sleep and surprise, Dean couldn't help but glance over his shoulder at her.

As she sat up, concern written on her face, the blanket and sheet feel away from her body, revealing the full rise of her breasts where they rose alluringly above the revealing drape of delicate pink fabric. Her nipples tightened as her flesh was exposed to the cool night air, pouting visibly under the flimsy material. Dean clenched his hands into fists, squeezing until it hurt. It was those damn pajamas. Really, the only difference between what she was wearing tonight and what she usually did, were sleeves and a few inches of cotton around the neckline. Still, in the face of all that exposed, milk-pale skin, it was all he could do to stop himself from shoving her back on the bed, ripping the fragile covering from her, and feasting his mouth and hands on the sensuous temptation of the lavishly curved body that was no longer concealed. He could almost imagine how that velvety, fine-grained skin would taste if he dragged his tongue across the swell of her breast. How unbearably soft and smooth her flesh would be as she arched and twisted under the hard, knowing heat of his calloused hands. It would be so easy. He knew she wanted him, knew that it would take only a matter of moments to dissolve any resistance or hesitation, that her deeply buried sexuality was now burning close to the surface. He would lick and suck and stroke and bite until she was consumed by the sweet violence of her own sensuality, and then he would take her, fill her, feel her melt with pleasure around him. God. He wanted that more than he wanted to breathe.

_Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!_

Dean knew his control was hanging by a thread but, he had sworn he wouldn't touch her. And God! Was he regretting it.

"Dean?" Reggie questioned again. Her voice, now clearly anxious, wrenched him back into the present.

She reached out, worried by his lack of response.

_Oh baby, don't. Don't touch me._ He thought pleadingly. But she did.

And as soon as Dean felt the light pressure of her fingertips on his shoulder, he bolted from the bed.

Turning his head back but keeping his body and the hard proof of his desire facing away, he looked into her shocked, confused face.

"Dean, what's going on? Are you alright?" she asked.

_Was he alright? Hell no. _Dean thought grimly to himself. He wasn't alright. His whole body was thrumming with vicious arousal, and he was so hard he could count his heartbeats in the pulsing of his painfully swollen cock. But what he said was,

"I'm fine, just a bad dream. I think I'm gonna get some air." His voice, like hers, was low to avoid waking Sam, and roughened by desire. It made her shiver as she watched him drag on his jeans, grab his boots and jacket, and walk out the door.

Outside, Dean leaned his back against the chilly cement of the motel wall, and took deep breaths. He left his jacket off in the hopes that the cold air would be able to cool the molten currents of unadulterated lust coursing through him. Sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, he prepared to wait out the remaining few hours until dawn. There was no way he was going back in there. It had been one hell of a long night and, tomorrow, he was going grocery shopping. Dean groaned dramatically in the pre-dawn stillness. It just wasn't fair.


	62. Chapter 62

AN: Four days. That's not too bad between updates right? I hope you guys like this chapter. I know some people find the alternating POV's a bit confusing, or distracting, but I really like getting another perspective on things, and this was just too good an oportunity to pass up. Adventures in Grocery Shopping Part 2 coming...well, as soon as I can get them out of my head and onto the page. Happy Reading!

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"This is it?"

Reggie's tone heralded both her surprise and misgivings.

Dean swiveled his head to look at the small, plain, brown-brick, square of a building that was adorned with a simple white sign reading, **Wlitgan's Market**.

"Uh, yeah. Only place in town" he replied, gesturing to the squat structure.

"Where are we again?" asked Reggie, grabbing her purse from the front seat of the Impala and, shutting the door, headed hurriedly though the spitting rain towards the building, grudgingly accepting that this was her only option. It was so disappointing. She'd been hoping for a good-sized, well-stocked store but, this would just have to do. Seeing the consternation on her face, Dean shook his head.

"We're in Bayard, Nebraska. What where you expecting, a superstore? This place has a population of like, 1, 200. You're lucky they have any kind of store at all."

"Really?" Reggie muttered under her breath, too quietly for Dean to hear. It seemed that during her little lust-induced fit of distraction, she'd missed Missouri and, it appeared, most of Nebraska. _Bugger._ Oh well. It was time to get back on track. After the colossal failure of her little experiment last night, she felt she'd finally managed to get some perspective. Dean just wasn't interested, and she needed to remember why that was a good thing. As far a she could tell, he'd had no reaction whatsoever to her change of bedtime attire the previous evening. Except for the nightmares. And she had to admit, that had thrown her. It was usually Sam who suffered from disturbing dreams, but the tension that had been radiating from Dean the night before left her no doubt that whatever he'd seen, had bothered him deeply. He's still been sending out little sparks of strain when he'd finally returned to the room well after daybreak. Seeing how tired he'd looked, how drawn that full mouth had been, and correctly interpreting the "just leave me alone" vibe he was projecting, she hadn't tried to talk to him about it. And when Sam had suggested they get some breakfast and give Dean some space, she agreed.

She and Sam had spent the morning poking around the little town. It was a quaint, pretty, kind of place. Where strangers drew a lot of attention. Especially when they were well over six feet tall, spoke softly, and had blue eyes to die for. It amused Reggie to no end, to see Sam shy and duck away from all the attention. Purposely walking on the other side of her and hunching his shoulders, as though her small frame could somehow hide his much larger body. She hadn't been able to resist teasing him, just a little bit, when a sweet looking little blond teenager had actually dropped her grocery bag after she bumped into him coming around the corner. She didn't know who had blushed harder, Sam or the teenager, when she'd finally stopped staring. And damned if they didn't both stutter out identically embarrassed, "I'm sorries".

Once the little blond was on her way, Reggie had tucked her tongue in her cheek and said,

"Smooth move, Casanova."

He groaned,

"Don't you start on me too. You sound like Dean."

Reggie gave an exaggerated eye roll,

"God forbid!"

He laughed.

"Really though" she cocked her head and looked at him,

"You're awfully pretty. Shouldn't you be used to that kind of attention by now?"

Sam blushed again,

"No" he said vehemently.

"It makes me feel…..awkward" he muttered.

Reggie laughed gently and ruffled his hair because he was just so cute and confused.

"Oh Sam" she sighed.

He gave a patented Winchester shoulder jerk and smiled into her eyes from behind the shaggy curtain of rich brown hair, tapped a brotherly finger against her pert little nose,

"Like you should talk" he accused.

She frowned at him and batted his hand away.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

Now it was his turn to sigh. Honestly, a woman as unaware of her own appeal as Reggie was a hazard. And, he knew, a rarity.

"I mean, I'm not the only one attracting a certain kind of attention."

Her frown deepened.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well" Sam counted out the more memorable incidents on his fingers.

"First, there was that guy in the corner store. When you bent down to grab the change you dropped, he almost fell over the counter trying to look down your top." And had been rewarded with a protective, warning glare from Sam for his efforts.

"Then there were those teenagers at the park. They almost got collective whiplash when you walked by. That tank top isn't tight, but it doesn't conceal nearly as much as you think it does." Reggie's mouth dropped open in shock at his bluntness and she instinctively crossed her arms across her breasts, even as she shook her head in denial, but Sam talked right over her objections.

"And finally, there was the man in the cafe. He most definitely did not know you from anywhere Reggie. That has to have been the most obvious pick-up line I've ever heard." And he'd been one cheeky bastard, to deliver it with Sam sitting right there. Yeah, he and Reggie weren't a couple but, the guy couldn't have known that.

At this last, Reggie blushed. She knew her obliviousness to the man's interest marked her as ridiculously naive. What Sam must think of her.

Actually, Sam didn't think Reggie was naive. He thought it was a crime that a woman like her should have such low self-esteem, that she wouldn't even consider that a man might speak to her because he found her attractive. And he knew that was it. It wasn't that she was oblivious or overly innocent, it was that it would never even occur to her that a guy might be hitting on her.

Absently, Sam wondered if Dean knew. How little their Reggie thought of herself. Studying her now, in an objective, measuring way, he figured it must take a pretty massive mental block to miss what was so obviously looking back at her from the mirror every morning. She wasn't 'beat you over the head with it beautiful' though, he thought that she might be, if she ever really tired. But Reggie neglected her appearance the way those who don't believe they have anything to offer in that department often do. Her clothes were nice enough, but they weren't chosen to accentuate what was undeniably one helluva body, more like to hide it, and she was almost always without makeup, and the only jewelry she wore was her grandmother's pendant. Even so, the lovely, classic oval of her face, with the flawless skin and large, almond shaped eyes, and the rather exotic, tawny colouring, drew plenty of attention.

Leaning against the wall of the store they had stopped by and listening to Reggie with one ear as she rationalized away all his observations, Sam wished he had the words. He loved her, he really did, and normally, talking was something he was good at. Usually he could string together the signifiers and the meaning, choose verbs and nouns on which he could hang enough truth to make an impact that went deeper, that wasn't just meaningless sound. But Reggie was different, she was good at talking too, and her walls were built of words, lies she had been told by others, and lies she told herself. He wished he could help her to see how beautiful she really was. The worst part was, he thought sadly, her self denial extended beyond the physical. In a moment of crystalline understanding, Sam knew that Reggie's opinion of her own worth as a person in general, was shockingly low. And that was a greater injustice by far.

He couldn't imagine what it must have been like, for her to grow up with an ability like hers. Where you were constantly bombarded by what others were feeling, carrying their burdens, forced to engage, to care. She'd never had the luxury of apathy, couldn't pick and choose her battles, turn a selective blind eye. All that hurt and happiness, sorrow and joy, how had she ever held onto herself, Reggie, in the midst of all that? He was beginning to understand that in a way, she hadn't. She'd embraced her destiny perhaps a little too wholeheartedly. She had never once doubted that her gift was a blessing, never feared it. Had never, he was sure, been tempted to use it to do anything other than help people but, she was almost too eager to put others first, and that, he knew, was because someone had convinced her that everyone else mattered more, or rather, that she didn't matter at all. So, she had come to value herself solely through others and what she gave, but asked nothing in return, for fear of rejection. For someone like her, Sam knew such an abandonment would be fatal. Look at how she had reacted to the harsh truth and frightening reality the Winchesters had thrust on her.

She had never once resented them for ripping her from her comfortable life. She hadn't once complained, in all this time, about the wild, demonic goose chase they were dragging her on. Had stood and fought beside them against the nightmare creatures that were a part of the brothers' daily existence. For a long time, Sam hadn't believed such strong, generous, selfless, _good_ people really existed. He'd been too busy seeing the evil in the world, cursing the dark destiny thrust upon him. He had forgotten, that as much darkness as there was, there were also people like his brother, like Cami, like Reggie, who stood against it. But, hearing Reggie dismiss any possibility that she might be desirable or special, Sam realized the same thing Dean had, she was badly scarred, didn't consider herself one of those worth saving. She couldn't see how much she was valued, and the truth wasn't something she could be told, she'd have to be shown. Sam was pretty sure there was only one person who could teach Reggie about her own truth, and it wasn't him.

So, as the sun faded and smudges of purple-grey storm cloud began to appear in the sky, he'd let the subject drop and they'd headed back to the motel, where Dean was waiting to take Reggie shopping.

Wiltgan's Market was owned by a matronly looking woman of about seventy-five, who was comfortably round and cushy. She had deep laugh lines around her mouth and eyes, and there was a sparkle in the dark, bright orbs which belied her years. Her given name was Louisa, but no one had called her that since she'd married her husband, Colonel William Wiltgan, over forty years ago, and come to America from her native Scotland as a war bride. She'd been Mrs. Colonel ever since and, had formed one third of the ruling, matriarchal triumvirate of Bayard, along with her two dearest friends, Mrs. Doctor and Mother Crawford, for as long anyone in the sleepy little town cared to remember. She and her William had opened the Market not long after they'd arrived, almost thirty-five years ago. In a town the size of Bayard, such institutions were the hub of the community, the heart of a social network. But Mrs. Col. was a warm, friendly sort of lady, and wielded her not inconsiderable influence gently. She considered it one of her primary duties to look out for the town's youth. In Bayard, which was an older community, children were scarce and precious. Most of them passed through Wiltgan's frequently, throughout their lives, in a variety of capacities. Since the only local employment opportunities for Bayard's handful of teenagers consisted of Mert's Auto Shop, where she and Mrs. Doctor had seen sweet Jenny Lindle was welcome despite Mert's protestations over the fact that she lacked a certain anatomical appendage; Mother Crawford's Café, which had once had an actual name, but no one could remember what it was; the Quick Mart just off the highway; and Wiltgan's, fully one half of the town's adolescent population stood behind the tills or stocked shelves at the Market after school and during the summer months. This caused Mrs. Col. to look upon them quite as her own, and considered it her duty to observe, pry, and when necessary, meddle in their lives.

This particular Thursday hadn't started out as anything special. It was cloudy and dank, and a persistent drizzle was dripping petulantly from the sky. She had the freckle-faced, long limbed, carrot-topped Jenkins brothers at work on the shelving, along with sly, dark-eyed Dakin O'Rourke. He liked to make gentle, soft-spoken, blue-eyed Sarah Morgan on till number one, blush. But Mrs. Col didn't interfere and put a stop to the teasing as she normally might have, because she saw something beneath Dakon's slick, cool exterior. Little Sarah had steel enough in her spine, which the boy would discover if he kept after her, and besides, behind his aloof eyes and provocative remarks, he was desperately in love with his sweet, quiet co-worker, and hadn't a clue what to do about it. Smiling in secret amusement at the thought of the match, and they were, Mrs. Col. was never wrong about her kids when it came to these things, she hummed quietly and imagined what pretty babies they would make for her to fuss over one day, as she had once fussed over them. Next there was raven-haired, chocolate-eyed Leanne Chung. The tiny, exotic girl, one of the few imports in Bayard, was, Mrs. Col. had decided, a dear little thing, badly in need of friends in a strange new place, which was why she had chosen to give Leanne the afternoon shift with bold-as-brass Lizzie Maven. Lizzie was also dark haired, though she streaked her brunette tresses with bold stripes of red, and rimmed her emerald-green eyes with liner in an eye-wateringly bright cobalt. She could make poor Lon Jenkins stutter with no more than a glance, and she often continued to stare shamelessly until his face matched his red hair. However, at heart, Lizzie was a good girl, and as much as she loved to torment the boys with her wicked sense of humour and short denim skirts, she was a fierce and loyal friend and had, as Mrs. Col. had predicted, taken shy Leanne under her wing.

Usually the girls hung around the tills, Lizzie sitting on the counter, kicking her heavy black boots and telling outrageous stories and dirty jokes, the centre of the other two's attention, which was how he liked it, and killed time. Wiltgan's wasn't usually crawling with people at 2:00pm on a weekday. If someone interesting came in, usually of the male sex, audacious Lizzie took delight in shocking giggles out of her co-workers with scandalous comments about key points of their anatomy, or eliciting gasps with her forwardness. Sometimes she would dare one of the others to say or do something, challenges steady Sarah was teaching the eager, unsure Leanne to ignore. Mrs. Col. didn't mind their games. There was only one rule, at least one person had to be on hand to check out any customer who might wander by in need of service. Therefore, the sight of three empty tills that came into view as she strolled up aisle six, was something of a surprise. Advancing the rest of the way to the end of the row and peaking around the shelf, she spied her AWOL cashiers. They were huddled in a tight, breathless knot at the head of aisle three, peaking covertly around the stack of flour sacks which adorned the front of the baking section. Leanne was clutching Sarah's hand and even dauntless Lizzie was holding herself tense as a rabbit under the gun. Raising her eyebrows, Mrs. Col snuck foreward to get a look at what could be effecting all three of her girls so adversely.

_Oh well, here now,_ she thought as she sidled up behind Lizzie. The trio of teenagers were oblivious to her presence, so fixated were those three pairs of eyes on the man who came into view as Mrs. Col. leaned around the staggered gaggle of girls. Not that she could blame them. He was about half-way down the aisle facing away from them, bent slightly foreword at the waist, his arms resting casually on the handle of the shopping cart. Broad shoulders tapered into narrow hips and long legs. His green tee-shirt exposed well-muscled, powerful looking arms and his skin was a dark gold that was just being edged towards bronze by the young spring sun. His short, dark blond locks were similarly sun-kissed, and hair and skin alike still glistened with rain damp. The fine, clinging mist of precipitation had generated just enough moisture to cause the light material of his shirt to adhere rather snuggly to his skin, revealing the sculpted muscle of back and shoulders. Mrs. Col. swallowed, eyeing him appreciatively. She'd always considered herself to have a fine eye and great appreciation for a nice backside on a man, and the one that was currently on display was of the first caliber. All in all, it was a body that had been designed to make the simple uniform of beaten Levi's and cotton work shirt into a mouth-watering fantasy. Shaking her head approvingly, she prepared to shoo the girls away, taking note of the pretty young woman with whom the man was conversing. He said something to her that made her shake her head, and then, he turned his head to toss a knowing, roguish grin at his admirers.

Mrs. Col. felt her breath catch along with the younger girls',

_Saints above preserve us. _She exclaimed silently.

He was too, real, too unpolished, too _male_, to be compared to something as fine and cool as a classic Greek sculpture, but his face held that kind of beauty, with the blunt, chiseled jaw and the high brow. And then there were the starling green eyes with their knowing amusement, their easy arrogance, _God Lord!_ He'd a mouth that would have made Satan green with envy, and the rakish smile that graced those full lips, should the full force of it ever be turned against you, could probably knock a woman flat from thirty paces. It was the face of a fallen angel, one who had thoroughly enjoyed his damning sin.

His whole demeanor, all those wonderfully rough edges, were whispering to three young, impressionable female hearts of dusty roads and fading sunsets, of danger and excitement. Renegade. Drifter. Outlaw. And just a bit to wild for her girls, Mrs. Col. decided. This wasn't a man who was deliberately cultivating some kind of trendy, rebel appeal. This was a man who seduced effortlessly, with a devastating natural charisma that allowed him to command your attention just by standing there. And yet, she would bet that he could fade into the background, melt out of sight entirely, just as easily. The hints of darkness, the traces of danger which clung to him and added to the initial thrill of attraction, spoke to her experienced eyes of real shadows, deep, mysterious ones that he'd walked too often to be able to fully leave behind. And he moved with a confidence any woman who'd spent two-thirds of her life married to a highly trained military professional would recognize. Oh yes, this one was the proverbial wolf among the sheep, and this shepherd wasn't about to be caught snoozing.

"Back to work girls", Mrs. Col. voice was firm and brisk, surprising her charges out of their stupor. Sarah and Leanne scattered like startled doves, diving back behind their respective tills, faces flaming, but Lizzie, God bless her, required an extra little nudge to get her moving.

When Reggie entered the store, she found herself pleasantly surprised. It might have been small and drab looking on the outside, but the interior was clean and bright, and the colourful profusion and abundant "organic" signs in the produce department showed promise. _Maybe this won't be so bad after all_, she thought happily to herself.

"Grab a cart will you?" she said to Dean, unable to mask the excitement in her voice as she almost ran into the store, shaking raindrops from her hair and swiping them from her arms as she went.

Shaking his head, Dean did as she asked and followed her.

In his opinion, shopping of any kind rivaled the ninth circle of hell for torture.

When they reached the baking aisle, he draped himself over the cart and sighed dramatically, hoping to egg Reggie into hurrying the whole process up. She ignored him, and the powerful urge she had to sip the rainwater from where the shimmering droplets he'd missed, had slid down to gather at the base of his throat. Hastily, she began grabbing things and tossing them into the cart. Dean's eyes widened in mild alarm as he took in the growing pile of products. Spices, nuts, sugar, baking pans…..

"Hey" he said, grabbing a plastic container marked baking soda and a cookie sheet out of the cart and brandishing them at her.

"What're you doing?"

"Well" said Reggie, snatching the baking soda from him and replacing it in the cart. Her voice took on that coaxing tone that put him on high alert.

"I was thinking that, it doesn't make any sense to buy the baking stuff in small quantities over and over. I sort of thought it might be a good idea if we kept a box of supplies with us."

As she spoke, she leaned down to haul a 1 kg bag of flour from the bottom shelf.

"Give me that" he growled, grabbing the heavy sack from her and dumping it unceremoniously into the cart.

"Where the hell are we supposed to put all this stuff?"

"In the trunk" she replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"There's no room in the trunk" he immediately rejoined, something inside rebelling at the thought of his beloved knife collection sharing storage space with baking goods.

"Oh please." Reggie waved a dismissive hand,

"You could fit a body in that trunk."

"Can and have" muttered Dean.

"What?"

"Nothing. I still don't think it's such a good idea."

"Don't be stubborn Dean" she tried to persuade him.

"There'll still be lots of room for your…." _Arsenal might draw the wrong kind of attention. _She paused and looked around covertly,

"Toys" she finished.

He crossed his arms.

"This way we'll be able to have baked goodies whenever we want."

"Damn." Defeated, he tossed the cookie sheet back into the cart and she smiled.

"Okay, we're almost done here" she murmured, and then,

"I wish they wouldn't do that."

"Who?" he asked. Reggie rolled her eyes toward the small congregation of female teenagers at the end of the aisle. It wasn't that she blamed them, she remembered quite well the impact Dean could have upon first acquaintance, but she hated the waves of giddy delight and desire that assaulted her whenever they went near other women. It shouldn't have bothered her as much as it did. She had no right to be jealous, especially of a bunch of kids, but still…

Dean, the insufferable bastard, just gave her a cocky smile, before turning that killer grin on his adoring fans.

She clearly felt the four-fold spike of dizzy pleasure, and scowled.

"Stop that!" she hissed,

"They're practically children!"

He turned back, looking a bit offended.

"I'm not gonna _do_ anything about it for God's sake." Another shameless smirk.

"It's good for my ego."

She snorted derisively.

"Your ego needs stroking like I need a hole in the head."

Dean just shrugged and kept right on grinning, mostly so he wouldn't give in to the temptation to tell her that he'd gladly give up all the flattering, giggling, meaningless ego massage in the world, if she'd stroke something else.

Reggie cleared her throat, wondering what exactly _that,_ look meant, and turned away, saying,

"Let's go. We need veggies for tonight. Did you get the potatoes?" she asked as Dean heaved an almighty sigh and followed her down the aisle.


	63. Chapter 63

AN: Hey guys. Sorry, I know that was almost a week between update. Or maybe it was a week exactly? Anyway, my Summer Latin course has started, adn let me tell you, that is one unholy SOB of a dead language. Anyway. This chapter is extra long. I hope it's okay. To be honest, I'm so bleery I'm not even sure which way it up. I only pray there aren't to many typos. Enjoy.

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"Now girls" began Mrs. Col, correctly interpreting the stubborn stare Lizzie was shooting her, one that spoke of resentment at being denied the opportunity to further ogle the beautiful stranger,

"I want you to stay here and behave while I…..Oh, hello Marianne dear."

She paused in her speech to greet Marianne Blerimend, who was toting her precocious, tow-headed, not quite two year old daughter Amy on her hip. She was also in the last trimester of her second pregnancy, and charmingly awkward with it. Mrs. Doctor had confided to Mrs. Col that the second child had come as a bit of a shock, not planned, but, of course, welcome. Marianne's husband Danny was working in the big city as a lawyer, and doing extremely well for himself. Mrs. Col. smiled warmly at the expectant mother and automatically raised a hand to summon one of the boys to help her with her shopping, but big, quite, gentle Lon Jenkins had already materialized just behind her, silently signaling his identical, but more talkative, twin Matt to take over his box of soup cans, which were still waiting to be stacked onto the shelves. Mrs. Col. sighed, Lon was such a good boy, she really wished Lizzie would give him chance. Speaking of Lizzie, Mrs. Col. turned back to her sulking charge.

"Now Lizzie" she began, but the girl cut her off,

"You just want us to stay here so you can go off and spy on them!" she accused.

Mrs. Col. didn't deny it.

"That's the prerogative of age dear" she responded, and met Lizzie's brilliant green eyes firmly with her own dark ones.

After a moment, the girl subsided and Mrs. Col. knew she would do as she was told. At least for now. Satisfied that her girls were safe, Mrs. Col. gave her iron grey bun a cursory pat, and headed off to see exactly what kind of trouble had rolled into her town. And trouble was trouble, no matter how attractively packaged it came.

As he stood among the towers of shiny red apples and rather alien looking, leafy green things he couldn't identify, Dean thought that compared to the coma-inducing monotony of the produce section, the baking aisle was almost exciting. Rolling his eyes as Reggie held up a head of broccoli and asked him what he thought, he answered honestly.

"Green."

"What?" she looked confused.

He shrugged,

"It's green."

Now she rolled her eyes,

"Right. Okay, got it, not so big on broccoli, how about eggplant?" She held up a frightening-looking vegetable with shiny, purple-black skin that Dean had never seen before.

"It's purple!" he couldn't mask the alarm in his voice,

"Okay, I'll take that as a no" she muttered and, conceding that she wasn't going to get any useful feedback from him, stopped asking for his opinion and began to load up the cart.

"Dean whistled through his teeth and shuffled his feet. Reggie shot him a dark look.

"Did I already ask you if you got the potatoes?"

"Yes" he responded.

"And what did you say?"

"No."

"Then will you please go get them" _and get out of my hair because you're making me crazy._

Another shrug, "Whatever."

Reggie shook her head as Dean strolled away, but couldn't help but smile at his adolescent boredom. It was like shopping with a slightly sulky teenager. Her heart constricted in her chest, something he'd never really had a chance to be.

Turning back to the onions and reaching for a fat, yellow specimen, she caught the eye of the elderly, but spry looking shopkeeper who was straightening the cucumbers into neat, verdant rows two tables over. She smiled, and the woman grinned back, her black eyes dancing with warmth and welcome and, Reggie reached out with her gift, amused curiosity. Reggie sighed to herself. She could recognize a small-town maven when she saw one, and she understood the natural, protective inquisitiveness they often displayed towards anyone new. It was just like Dean, to attract so much attention, now she'd have to keep her senses open to the elderly woman, and make sure that casual interest didn't slide towards suspicion.

It had taken Mrs. Col. all of two minutes to re-asses her opinion of the charismatic stranger. He was no threat to her girls. For one, though she was quite sure her initial impression of the danger which clung to him was accurate, he was the kind of man who should be feared by nameless things which lurked in the dark, not giddy schoolgirls. As she watched him, she became increasingly reassured, and intrigued. He was obviously bored, to the point of misery, and yet, his irritation and annoyance were underlied with patience and a grudging solicitousness toward the young woman whom he was with. Mrs. Col.'s mouth twitched into a half-smile as she watched him tag along after the curly-haired girl, muttering under his breath and snagging the heavy items she selected from her arms with a sort of gruff, irritated insistence. But that only made the elderly woman smile more broadly, she easily recognized his brand of off-colour chivalry. His grudging assistance told her his helpful actions were born of a need to care for others, a protective compulsion breed into his nature, not the meaningless actions that made up traditional good manners. Nothing about him said that he was the kind of two-legged predator that would prey on innocents like her girls. And there was the little fact that, after quietly observing the greedy way he drank the sight of the young woman when she wasn't looking, and teased her when she was, he was quite clearly head over heels in love with her, and trying very hard to deny it. It was in the hooded way his eyes touched her whenever she turned away. The way everything about him was inclined ever so slightly, almost undetectably, toward her, as if he was unconsciously creating a space into which her body was meant to curve, resting against his, even as he struggled to hold her at arm's length. _Men_. Maybe he and Dakin could start a club, thought Mrs. Col. wryly.

Having determined that the man with the disarming smile and shadowed gaze was in danger of doing no more that the most superficial of heart-breaking (though she'd bet good money that none of her girls would ever forget him, and indeed, that he might well haunt their dreams for the next little while), she turned her attention to the girl who was with him. She had to admit that she was curious about the woman who could hold such a man's attention. At first glance she seemed too young, and too sweetly innocuous to be an appropriate match for the rugged, commanding warrior with the startling green eyes, but Mrs. Col. knew better than to judge any book by it's cover. After a few more moments of observation, she decided that the girl wasn't actually all that innocuous after all, she was just very good at making herself blend in, to the point where she almost disappeared. She sort of, blurred herself. Hunched her shoulders, shuffled, wore clothes that were a few sizes too big, left her face naked and kept her hair tucked up. The body beneath the bulky sweater and jeans was almost totally obscured, but even the heavy material couldn't completely conceal the swell of generous breasts, nor the dark denim the gentle, almost painfully feminine curve of hips and long legs. The face was fine and delicate, the porcelain skin, high cheekbones, dark, arched brows and slightly pointed chin making a fine backdrop for large eyes and a wide, soft mouth. But it was the eyes that caught her, when she smiled at the girl and was rewarded with a genuine grin in return. They were an uncanny golden colour, caught somewhere between bronze and amber, almost the exact shade of her tawny curls. But it was what she saw in those eyes that made her understand. The Scots in her blood had always left Mrs. Col. with a predilection to believe in the fey, to accept that which could not be weighed, nor measured, nor touched. _Old_. She thought quietly to herself. A_ very old soul_, weathered with pain, but still graced with wisdom and generosity beyond what one normally saw.

Those eyes reminded her that years were only one way to measure age, and they were not the most accurate. Like her man, this child had seen things, felt things, most people never would, and still, she registered on the old woman's keen sense of intuition as a creature of hope rather than despair. Strength. The child was strong, her deceptively small frame housing more than enough determination, enough will, to match the soldier's physical prowess. Enough light to banish the creeping shadows within him, and he those within her.

So they were a match after all.

Caught up by the unexpected intensity of the sub-text between the two young people, Mrs. Col. watched them with something that felt dangerously like tears coating the back of her throat, saw the yearning that flashed in the golden eyes as the man returned, before they were cast down. Had seen the way she admonished him to his face, but smiled when he turned away. Mrs. Col. shook her head. They reached out to one another on some elemental level, but each pulled back just before the connection was made, and each was left all the more achingly alone for the proximity of the beloved other who was somehow so far away. There was something dark, edgy, and just a tiny bit desperate whirling and eddying around them. It was the kind of alienation that most people wouldn't see, their eyes sliding off the girl's deliberately unassuming demeanor, or distracted by the man's arresting physical appearance. But Mrs. Col. had a lifetime of experience to shield her from those deliberate signals of misdirection, and her sage eyes saw what was hidden in plain sight.

Love. Love desired and love denied.

Why they should shun what was so obviously between them she did not know, knew only that to deny something so powerful, to turn away from one another when union was so deeply, painfully desired by both, they must be driven by a need as dark and mysterious as the shades which haunted their eyes. Sucking in her breath, Mrs. Col. prepared to turn away, realizing that she had stumbled upon something far deeper, far more powerful, and far more sorrowful than she'd intended. Glancing back, she blinked, looking at the two young people who stood on either side of the shared shopping cart, and wondering if she could have imagined the powerful current of longing that she'd felt running between them. Now they seemed as distant and unconcerned with each other as strangers might. She sighed, the inability of the young to understand the incomparable value of love and its transformative power always saddened her.

Dean tossed the bag of potatoes into the cart and turned to look at Reggie, who was studying the tangle of vine-ripened tomatoes available intently, a slight frown marring her brow. A few rain-dampened tendrils of honey-cloured hair had escaped their confines and were falling into her eyes, his fingers itched to tuck the errant strands back behind her ear. Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away. As he did so, a familiar scent caught his attention. Frowning and trying to identify the smell, he moved away from Reggie, around the end of the table laden with vegetables and towards the stacks of apples and pears. More old memories flooded into him as he identified the source of the scent. He'd always thought that strawberries smelled like sunshine.

He could remember clearly going on outings with his parents to the small, local farms, near their home in Lawrence. They'd crouched amid the fragile plants and, he recalled the smell and feel of the sun-warmed earth beneath him, the way his mother had gasped when she'd seen the masterpiece he'd made of his once brilliantly white tee-shirt with berry coloured paint, and the way his father's deep, rolling laughter hand turned her chagrin into amusement. The way she'd snatched him into her arms and cuddled him, shared with him one of the tart, succulent fruits from her own basket, so he would know she wasn't mad at him. The memory fed a moment of childish enthusiasm, in which he snatched up the plastic container of ruby fruit and hurried to show Reggie his prize. She was just turning back to where he should have been, her lips pursing as she realized he was gone, and parting on an admonishment when she saw him returning, only to be cut off when he pressed a ripe, red strawberry firmly against her mouth. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but was too shocked by the innocent, almost childish delight she felt radiating from him, the simple joy she saw in his eyes.

Too late she realized that even her slight hesitation had been enough to shatter the fragile moment of pleasure, and she wanted to protest, when she saw the light in his eyes begin to dim. So when he spoke, his voice just slightly heavy, and holding the echo of something long since lost, and nudged the berry against her lips a second time, she was almost over hasty in accepting the offering, in her desire to atone for disrupting his stolen moment of happiness.

"Just try it."

Dean was so tired. He felt the little jolt of energy the discovery of the strawberries had given him ebb, as the warm faces and smiles of the past faded, and left him looking into Reggie's confused and hesitant visage. Her trepidation and bafflement at his simple offering confirmed that he would never again know that basic, easy exchange of affection. That the seeming normalcy of the last two days, the shared meal and this domestic chore, were no more than a façade. It would always be complicated, always be hard, always be impossible. His life, their relationship, were still coloured, stifled, by the duty he carried, that he embraced. Such a simple act, an intimate one, could only ever be out of place between them. Still, there was some part of him that hoped with a fierce, single-minded stubbornness, that even if the gift could not be innocent, could not be uncomplicated, it might still be accepted. He held his breath as it was, and felt all thoughts of the past spiral away in a dizzying, roaring wave of desire that electrified his body and lit up his eyes, as he stared with rapt attention at the sight of Reggie's full, pink lips parting to slide around the strawberry. He stood still, frozen with his hand hovering inches from her mouth, his fingers still clutching the green hull of the berry, his eyes fixed on her lips as she chewed slowly and swallowed. And then green eyes were on gold, and Reggie felt the sharp sizzle of energy, of want that spilled out from him, sparking in the silent air, reaching out to envelop her. Holding her captive as surely as his arms and hands might have.

Mrs. Col. blinked in shock, as the atmosphere between the golden eyed girl and the handsome man once again shimmered and changed, from apathetic to super-charged, without warning, in the space of a heartbeat. The heat that infused the man's gaze as he stared at the small woman's mouth would have scorched the surface of the sun. She had meant to turn away, to leave them to their private drama, to intrude no more upon whatever pain plagued them, but she was caught up, mesmerized, by the intensity of the man's burning stare and the woman's breathless anticipation. Mrs. Col. felt something jubulant and glad sparkle within her, as she became sure that she would witness the end of what had clearly been a long and painful journey for both of the captivating strangers. That she would see them reap in each other a reward long deserved, and long withheld. She was certain that neither could possibly withstand the torrid ferocity of what had blazed so suddenly and unexpectedly between them.

Leaning forward, she felt the neat pyramid of Granny Smith apples give way beneath her imprudently placed weight, sending a cascade of green orbs bouncing and rolling from the table to the floor. Gasping, Mrs. Col. leapt back and stumbled, only to find that by the time she looked up, the man and woman were once again as cool and contained as could be. And once again she was left wondering if she could have imagined the extremity of emotion that vibrated between them, so completely had it dissipated. Before she could collect herself, the man was beside her, and his large hand was steadying her, as a winning grin and affable green gaze reassured her. The girl was there as well, warmth and palpable concern in every syllable of her speech, as she asked gently,

"M'am, are you alright?"

When the matronly looking lady with the steely bun and dark, dazed eyes didn't immediately answer her, Reggie cast a worried look at Dean, who had a firm grip on the woman's waist, and was supporting her against the edge of the produce table.

"Dean" she began, preparing to suggest that perhaps they should find somewhere for the woman to sit down, but was interrupted by a firm, slightly embarrassed voice. There was just a bit of faded music to it, enough for Reggie to recognize the melody of Scotland, and enough chagrin for her to recognize bruised pride, even if she hadn't been able to feel the woman's flustered surprise.

"Oh, no. Thank you dear" she was pulling away from Dean, brushing at her navy skirt and tugging on her crisp blouse.

"My own fault. I'm afraid I'm just getting a bit clumsy in my old age." She smiled reassuringly at Dean, who was wearing the most adorable, concerned frown.

"Can I help you somewhere where you can sit down?" he asked, unwilling to relinquish his hold on her.

"No dear" she repeated,

"I'm fine really. But again, thank you so much." She cast a glance at Reggie,

"Such a sweet young man."

"Oh yeah" murmured Reggie under her breath, the words caught somewhere between sarcasm and sincerity,

"He's one of a kind."

The woman's grin widened, as though she had heard her, and she extended a hand,

"I'm Mrs. Col. and I own the store."

"Uh, Reggie" replied Reggie, finding herself on the receiving end of a solid handshake.

Both women looked at Dean. He jumped when Reggie prodded him, and offered his hand in turn,

"Dean."

"Well, Reggie, Dean" Mrs. Col. beamed at them,

"I'll see you at the checkout."

And with that, she beat a hasty retreat.

Dean watched her go with a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

"Did you get the feeling that she….knew something?" he asked.

Reggie shrugged.

"If she did, it wasn't anything specific, not that I picked up on anyway."

Though there had been a healthy dose of that indefinable "knowing" which so often characterized the emotion with which the old looked upon the young. It was a sentiment Reggie had never quite been able to put a name to, the kind of feeling a lifetime of experience produced in some people, which gave them a universal power of recognition. They knew because they had lived long and well, and in Mrs. Col., that disconcerting sense of knowledge had been tinged with sympathy and regret. It made Reggie uneasy.

'Let's get out of here" she suggested.

"Yeah, like, right now" agreed Dean, equally unnerved by the brief encounter with the store's wise and feisty patron.

Both pulled back with unnecessary force when their hands brushed on the handle of the cart.

_And let's not talk about that_. Thought Reggie silently to herself. Leaving the steering to Dean, he was never happy unless he was behind the wheel anyway, even if it was only a shopping cart, she hurried down the aisle toward the checkout counter, her head abuzz with questions and her stomach filled with butterflies, the kind that had wings of flame. Just when she had convinced herself that Dean wasn't interested in her, he went and did something like that. Not even Reggie's overdeveloped sense of self-denial could disavow the pure fire in the gaze he had pinned her with. She shoved hands that wanted to tremble into the pockets of her burgundy hoodie and banished the perplexing, and she was afraid, alluring, thoughts of Dean's desire to the back of her mind.

Following more slowly behind, Dean scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Who knew the goddamned grocery store could be so hazardous. He figured he deserved to be nominated for canonization for managing not to drag Reggie against him and ravage her tempting mouth, after watching her lap the strawberry juice from her full lips_. Jesus. _Truth was, he had to admit, he owed the shopkeeper and her unsteady limbs one, because his restraint had had nothing to do with will power. The only thing that had stopped him from lifting Reggie onto the edge of the orange table and licking his way into her mouth right then and there was the interruption and welcome distraction of the apple landslide. How in the hell was he supposed to resist her when she looked at him that way? That wide-eyed look from beneath her lashes that said she wanted nothing more than to be devoured by him. Christ, the residual, quicksilver glide of lust in his veins still had his guts tied into knots. Closing his eyes, Dean took a deep breath as they approached the till. It was time to act normal, to put his mask back on, and make sure he was remembered by these people for nothing more than his good looks. It was tricky, to be invisible with a face like his, but Dean knew how to make it work for him, to make himself handsome, but not memorable. Looks meant far less than most people thought, and they were among the first things people forgot. If he was only handsome and charming, then he was nothing special, and he would fade quickly. Time to put his game face on.

When Mrs. Col. saw the couple coming toward the till, she hurried to take Lizzie's place behind the number one cash, the only open register, easing the teenager from her station despite the girl's protestations. Lizzie scooted in with Sarah and Leanne, who were squished together in the neighboring pay station, a position which would afford them the best view of the young man. _Dean_, Mrs. Col. reminded herself. Dean and Reggie. She smiled as they joined the end of the small queue in front of the till. She assessed them as she handily rang up and bagged old Mr. Cockran's weekly supply of cream soda and Mackintosh toffee. He smiled at her, a full, wide grin that creased his weathered face and showed off two rows of perfect, white teeth. It really was a miracle he still had them all, considering what a sweet tooth the old dear had. Waving him off with a friendly flick of her hand, Mrs. Col. returned her covert attention to Reggie and Dean, while she began to ring through Marianne's purchases, smiling at Amy as she did so.

The little girl was fine-boned but had a rough and tumble personality and a mischievous streak that never failed to charm, and made Mrs. Col. think that she'd be more than a match for the brother sleeping in her mother' womb(more inside intel from Mrs. Doctor). She was sitting, with her tiny pink and white sneakers and charmingly bedraggled hair (one pigtail had lost it's purple elastic), on the black, rubber conveyer belt among various foodstuffs, giggling madly every time it automatically advanced and looking for all the world like a slightly disheveled pixie. She had a tattered looking stuffed rabbit that was fading from white to grey and had obviously seen better days, in a headlock. Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Col. noted the blatant way Lizzie was hanging over the side of the number two till, so she could see Dean more clearly. Leanne and Sarah were less brazen, but equally obvious. He wore it well, she noted, all that female attention. It settled on his shoulders like a faded and comfortable garment. He was neither fazed by, nor overly presumptuous in his acceptance of, the many admiring glances that came his way. He treated the girls to another charming, dynamic smile and settled back on his heels, crossing his arms and assuming a patient air as he and Reggie waited for Mrs. Col. to finish with Marianne. Mrs. Col. noticed that he'd even managed to raise the faintest tinge of pink on young mother's cheeks. Then something happened that surprised them all.

Having caught sight of Dean while attempting to retie her pale pink shoe-lace, Amy had abandoned the task and taken to staring. Her expression said something along the lines of _oh, pretty. _After a few moments of intense study, she rose unsteadily to her feet and, clutching her rabbit, managed to make it the two steps down the conveyer belt, through the mine-field of produce and dry goods, only losing her footing as she neared Dean's side. He reacted quickly, reaching out and arm to steady her, his large hand almost enveloping her tiny waist. Unconcerned by her near fall, the little girl leaned trustingly against his supporting limb and brazenly voiced the desire running through the mind of every woman in the store. Amy looked into Dean's face, batted her corn-flower blue eyes and, rising onto her tiptoes, patted one small hand against his mouth,

"Kiss" she demanded, pursing her own, tiny, bow-shaped mouth.

Mrs. Col. felt the collective in drawing of breath as everyone waited to see what the handsome stranger would do. Reggie could feel the flutter of distress that cascaded through the little girl's mother, a herald of shocked embarrassment, and then…..Dean laughed. Reggie felt her mouth drop open in shock as she watched him scoop the little girl off the conveyer belt and into his arms, making munching noises against her neck until she squealed with laughter. Then he pulled back, holding her so that they were eye to eye. Reggie watched in amazement as the two, the hardened warrior with the dancing green eyes and the little blue-eyed imp, grinned unabashedly at one another. But it wasn't just his actions that shocked Reggie. It was what he was feeling. The child's exuberance and wanton display of affection had kindled a light inside him she had never sensed before. It was a true, unclouded moment of euphoria touched off by the little girl's kiss.

Amy batted her ragged looking stuffed companion against Dean's shoulder.

"Kiss Mr. Bunny" she commanded.

And when, after only a moment's hesitation, Dean dutifully puckered up and planted one on Mr. Bunny's ratty whiskers, Reggie felt her heart hit the ground at the bottom of what had been a very long fall.

Mrs. Col. noted the way Reggie was staring, unblinking, at Dean and couldn't resist giving her a little push.

"That's a special man you've got there" she said conversationally as she bagged carrots.

"You two planning on starting a family of your own?" The elderly lady nodded her head at Dean,

"Talent like that shouldn't go to waste" she said, as Amy laughed again, when Dean pretended to steal her nose.

Reggie turned to look at Mrs. Col. with wide, surprised eyes. The blinding brilliance of Dean's smile as he ruffled Amy's hair made her heat stutter and her tongue stumble and falter over what should have been an easy, automatic denial. She rung her hands with distress.

"No." the quiet negative surprised both Reggie and Mrs. Col. and, they turned as one, to look at Dean, whose voice held an awful kind of certainly as he answered the old woman's question. There would be no bright-eyed daughters or tall, broad-shouldered sons in his future.

Reggie actually shook her head as she felt the darkness that owned Dean prepare to snap back around him, cut him off from the well-spring of pleasure Amy had brought him. Without really meaning to, she reached out and snatched at the choking tendrils of doubt and fear that rose up to strangle what had awakened within him. Dean's smile didn't falter as Reggie tugged away the biting sorrow of sacrifice. Instead, he tilted his head down to look at Amy,

"What's your name munchkin?" he asked.

"Amy" answered Amy, cuddling against him, clearly enjoying the way his low voice vibrated, deep in his chest, under her small hands. He grinned,

"I'm Dean" he told her, walking past Reggie to offer a hand to Amy's mother. And Reggie was left holding a handful of Dean's longing and regret. Another little piece of her heart unwilling annexed to his unintentional conquest. And the sneak attack wasn't over yet.

While Dean and Amy engaged in what appeared to be a private and very intense conversation, Mrs. Col. started to ring through Reggie's purchases. As she was finishing, Reggie heard Dean talking to the little girl's mother.

When he motioned her over, she went with a smile for the obviously pregnant young woman.

"Reggie" said Dean, suddenly Mr. Sociable,

"This is Marianne, and I'm gonna help her carry her stuff to her car." He indicated a small pile of white plastic bags marked, 'Wiltgan's.'

Reggie nodded.

"That's a good idea. I'll meet you at the Impala with our stuff."

Dean shook his head.

"I'll come back for it."

Reggie plugged her hands onto her hips and gave him an exasperated look.

"I can carry the groceries Dean" she said firmly.

He gaze was steady.

"I never said you _couldn't,_ but I don't _want_ you to." Reggie wanted to protest his misguided gallantry, but Dean was already turning away.

"C'mon munchkin" he said, sweeping Amy up and tossing her over his right shoulder, making her shriek with pleasure.

"Oops" he smiled, letting her squirm down and transferring her to his other arm.

"I must have mistaken you for the potatoes" he grinned, grabbing the aforementioned bag of vegetables and balancing them on the shoulder Amy had just vacated. Picking up the rest of Marianne's four bags in his right hand, keeping the left free to cuddle Amy, he turned back to Reggie.

"You coming?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Shaking her head at the sight of him, his arms full of groceries and little girl instead of rock salt and shotguns, she remembered that Dean had practically raised Sam. That it was natural he would be so good with children, but something inside whispered about what a special little boy it would have taken to be surrogate father to his baby brother, while he was still a baby himself.

Thinking that she was still planning to be stubborn about the groceries, Dean strode back over to where she was standing.

"Must you argue with everything I say" he said plaintitively. Then, grinning conspiratorially at Amy, he said to the little girl,

"You know Amy, my friend Reggie here, she can be awfully stubborn. You wanna help me out with something?"

Amy nodded eagerly.

"Okay" said Dean.

"You think you can keep a hold of her for me?"

Again Amy nodded, and leaned down from her perch in Dean's arms to hook a small arm around Reggie's neck.

Utterly defenseless against the guiles blue eyes and Dean's cajoling smile, Reggie let herself be drawn in close to Dean's body, unable to resist rising up to plant a quick kiss on Amy's button nose. The little girl giggled and rubbed her hand over the spot Reggie's lips had tickled, her hold around Reggie's neck tightening as she decided she liked this new person. And, thus entangled, the three made their way carefully out to the parking lot, with much laughing on Reggie and Amy's part, and much silent cursing on Dean's, as he attempted to keep his overflowing arms balanced, with Amy attached to his neck, and Reggie attached to Amy. Thankfully the old red Buick wasn't far off. The goodbyes between the three adults seemed somehow perfunctory and callous to Reggie, considering the profound nature of what she knew had transpired this afternoon. But that was the thing. Marianne couldn't know how deeply her daughter had affected Dean, because in the normal world, such a meeting was a simple, casual occurrence. One that must be quite regular in the life of a woman with such an enchanting child. Only Amy seemed to sense the gravity of the leave-taking. When Dean tucked her into the car, leaning in to double check that she was securely fastened into her car seat, she rested her small hands on his cheeks and, solemn-eyed, leaned in for one more kiss.

Reggie and Dean walked back to the store in silence, Dean snatching up their groceries and heading out without a word. Reggie paused to say goodbye to Mrs. Col.

The old woman regarded her with gentle eyes, and more understanding than should be possible. Than was safe. But for some reason, Reggie wasn't worried.

"Will we be seeing you around?" Mrs. Col. asked quietly, thinking that the bittersweet picture they had made, the big man with his gentle hands and the sweet young woman with the yerning eyes, linked by the little girl, would stay with her for a long time.

Reggie couldn't say why the question made her want to cry.

Yes she could. It was because she knew that the answer was no. No, as long as they were together, neither she nor Dean would belong to a community like this, where everyone knew you. Where everyone cared. Where you belonged. No, they would have no children to cherish. No, she had no chance for any of those things without him, and no, she had no chance for those things with him.

"No" Reggie whispered, her throat thick.

"But I wish….." she didn't finish.

Mrs. Col. reached out a hand and gently cupped Reggie's chin.

"So do I dear" the old woman said softly, and Reggie turned and walked away, refusing to shed the tears that shimmered in her eyes.


	64. Chapter 64

_AN: Hey Guys. I'm just squeaking in under my self-imposed, one chap. a weak min. deadline. Hope the wait wasn't too painful, it's a nice long chunk. This chapter just took forever becasue, since I'm setting up the new hunt, I had to get some details, especailly geographic ones, exactly right, and I've put in a tone of time doing research on Wyoming. Sounds like a beautiful place, after all this, I am tempted to visit. Anyway, enough jabbering. Hope you enjoy._

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_Just passing through._ The words echoed hollowly inside Reggie's head. It was what Sam had told the fawning, disappointed Doris from the front desk. when he went to check out and she had asked sadly,

"You aren't staying?"

The task had fallen to Sam because Dean had come back from his expedition with his face a dangerous, quiet blank, and all the teasing, smart-ass jibes Sam had been preparing all afternoon for his brother's return from grocery shopping, had faded from the tip of his tongue. Dean had curtly told Sam to move his ass and finish packing, before striding back out to the Impala, his own bags in tow. Reggie had wandered in a moment later, her hair and face wet from the persistent rain that would chase them all the way to Wyoming. Her eyes too had been carefully blank, as though she and Dean had both experienced something that had to be deliberately whitewashed from the mind. Sam had wanted to ask her what was going on, but she'd shaken her head at him before he'd even begun to form the question, grabbed her bag and followed Dean to the car. She had however, returned to walk with Sam into the main reception area of the Motel and bid Doris farewell, but rather than her usual gently engaging self, she'd been like a small, silent shadow dogging his steps, her eyes fixed on the rain and something he couldn't see.

When they returned to the Impala, Sam had been shocked to find Dean stretched out in the backseat, rather than at his customary place behind the wheel, his dark sunglasses hiding his eyes in spite of the gloom.

"I'm tired" was all he said, not even having to glance up to know that Sam was shooting him a worried, questioning look.

"I didn't sleep much last night."

Too surprised to respond, Sam had simply nodded and slid into the driver's seat while Reggie went around the passenger side.

"So, I think I found us a new hunt" said Sam, in a feeble attempt to draw her into conversation. It was no use, Reggie was feeling too drained to even attempt a smile, much less form coherent sentences. Instead, she gave Sam a noncommittal grimace and turned to sit with her head resting against the window, watching the blur of green country-side through the rivulets of water that slipped down the glass, her breath casting a fog on the inside of the pane so that the outside world became wholly indistinct between the fall of water and the veil of self-generated mist. All that was visible were rough shapes with indistinct edges, what should have been familiar was hardly recognizable.

_Like my life_, thought Reggie to herself.

It was true, when she tried to look at herself, to see her life, she could no longer get a clear picture. All that had once been solid and familiar and commonplace had been blurred to the point where she barely recognized the world that existed outside the Impala. Technically, her sphere of experience had expanded. She knew so much now that she hadn't before, had experienced so much, and yet, all that information and experience had only served to separate her from the world she had known. Now, the things that were the most real to her, were those she could share only with the two men sitting in this car. Her world had shrunk until it contained only Sam, Dean, and the cherished memory of family and friends, whom Reggie often wondered if she would ever see again. Recognizing how dangerous her thoughts were, and the kind of isolation they could lead to, Reggie turned her thoughts to the Winchesters.

_Just passing through_. She heard Sam's words again. Saw again Dean cradling Amy, saw the part of him that wanted that, and the larger part of him that denied those desires. The Winchesters were 'just passing through', life itself. They died a little everyday so that others could live. Sam and Dean were part of a honourable, duty-bound breed of soldiering men Reggie had thought long dead. The kind of men you read about in books, or caught a glimpse of in the pages of history. Men who believed in and fought for a cause with no external motivation. They did it because it was the right thing to do, sacrificed their own lives, not the physical, biological fact of them, but the living of them, so that others might have the things they denied themselves. Reggie shook her head, it turned out heroes weren't extinct after all. The breed was still rare, but not dying, just….unseen. They got no thanks and no pay, were as likely to be hunted themselves for their life-saving deeds as anything else, and they were tortured everyday by the blatant lure of a world and life beyond their means.

How did they do it? All the constant turmoil and angst, it was utterly draining. She was almost looking forward to the new hunt Sam had mentioned, at least it might give her something else to think about, other than the bizarre and frightening turn her life had taken. Other than the seething, confusing, painful swell of emotions which a certain green-eyed renegade, the kind of man she had once feared, and in truth, still did, only for different, far more dangerous and far more personal reasons, caused to riot violently within her. Still, she shouldn't complain. At least she still had hope. Had Cami and her own stubborn beliefs to link her to the real world. Even Sam had some small vestige of hope. It was far away, on the opposite side of a dark valley, the path through which he could not see, but there was some part of him that believed that _if_ he survived, and she knew that to his mind that was a big if, there might be the possibility of something more on the other side. But Dean didn't believe that. He wasn't striving toward some goal, some endgame. He would save Sammy and destroy the Yellow-eyed Demon that had broken his family, but those things wouldn't fix him, wouldn't heal him, wouldn't free him. It would be a victory, a triumph, but not an end. For him, the road would go on, his quest perpetual and totally incompatible with any way of life other than the solitary path of the wandering warrior. He still thought of his life, his destiny, his very identity as a hunter, as some sort of inexorable trap. Something that would forever deny him the things he desired. That had never been clearer to her than it had this afternoon.

Those brief seconds in the market had been a moment out of time. One she knew Dean was heartily wishing she hadn't witnessed. One that was at once a blessing and a curse for the solitary hunter. On the one hand, seeing Amy, interacting with her and her mother, would help him to remember why all the sacrifice was worth it, and on the other, it only served to remind him of all he had never known, and believed he never would. Part of Reggie wanted to tell him that the single most powerful thing Amy had felt when Dean held her, was safe. But she wasn't sure that would help, because it wouldn't take away the fact that he believed no child of his own would ever, could ever, bask in the security of his powerful, protective embrace. She could sense it now, the cool, almost automatic process that was going on behind the dark lenses of the sunglasses and Dean's closed eyes. The careful rebuilding of the walls which closed him off from the rest of humanity, the ones which allowed him to function without any future hope of having his very human desires for love and family fulfilled. She couldn't have known that her presence had made that usually automated shut down a hundred times harder for him.

There were always exceptions, Dean reminded himself. Unexpected moments when the real world would intrude upon his existence in an undeniable way and he would be forced to face the reality of his lonely life. But it was far easier to slip back into his shell, behind the shield of smart-ass indifference and isolation, when you had no hope. It was like Cassie all over again, only worse. If you had no permanent or deep, personal connections, then, despite the odd run-in with an endearing stranger, like little Amy, the walls stayed relatively intact. Dean would never see Amy again, the dent she had put in his armor would remain, but would grow no deeper. Not so with Reggie. Reggie made hope possible and, to a man like Dean, hope was fatal. Hope made you do stupid, crazy things. Made you forget about the job, distracted you, split your focus. If Dean had met Amy on his own, it would have been a fleeting hurt, because the emotions he felt, of longing and regret, were tied to a stranger. But Reggie made them personal. Now, dancing just behind the memory of Amy, there was the dream of a golden-eyed daughter with his mouth and her mother's laugh. And that thought wasn't a dent so much as a great, gaping hole inside him. One it would take him quite some time to fill in with the memory of his father's stern voice reminding him that he had a job to do, and even more effectively, of that same, strong voice layered with sorrow and regret and a hint of fear, telling him he had to save Sammy. And if all that wasn't enough, he could always burn away his own needs in the fiery memory of his mother's murder, and the consuming guilt of his father's sacrifice. Falling willingly into the darkness inside him, Dean effectively left Reggie and Sam alone in the car.

When he awakened hours later, the rain had stopped and Reggie was asleep in the front seat, her face hidden in her arms where they rested below the window.

"She was crying in her sleep" Sam's voice was soft as his eyes met Dean's in the rearview mirror.

Dean's mouth twisted momentarily but he didn't say anything, merely signaled for Sam to pull over. When the Impala rolled to a stop on the side of the deserted highway, he climbed out of the back and prepared to switch places with Sam, but Sam didn't allow him to just walk by.

Placing one large hand on Dean's chest, he searched his brother's eyes, which were now clear, the hazel orbs with their golden centre betraying nothing of the pain hidden behind them.

"What happened?" he asked.

Dean shrugged,

"Nothing."

"Then why was Reggie crying?"

Dean refused to let Sam see what knowing Reggie had cried over the loss of the possibility they had both glimpsed, did to him. Instead, he shrugged again.

"You'd have to ask her."

Sam threw up his hands,

"She told me to ask you! What the hell happened in that grocery store Dean!"

Dean's tone took on a warning note,

"Let it go Sammy."

Sam hesitated, accepting that whatever private sorrow they had shared, neither Dean nor Reggie was talking.

"Are you alright?" he finally asked, voice quiet.

Dean's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Why wouldn't I be? I admit, the vegetable section was mildly traumatic, I mean, have you ever _seen_ an eggplant" he joked, shuddering dramatically.

Sam ran an irritated hand through his hair.

"Fine. Have it your way" he muttered.

Dean grinned genuinely at his pique,

"I usually do."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"So" said Dean, pulling open the driver's side door and looking toward the star-studded horizon,

"You find us a gig?"

"Uh, I think so" said Sam, accepting the change in subject.

Dean nodded,

"Where?"

"There have been three strange disappearances in Hot Springs County, Wyoming. We're not that far from there so I figured……", he trailed off.

Dean nodded again.

" How far along are we?"

"Just over the Nebraska/Wyoming border" replied Sam,

"Another 550 miles or so to go."

"Great" said Dean with an anticipatory smile.

"You can give me the details when we get there. In the mean time, try to get some sleep, we're driving straight through."

Sam knew there was no point in arguing.

"Look at that" Reggie breathed as the trio drove north along Highway 20, past the Boyson Reservoir, breaking the six hour silence that had gripped the car during the long trip. The gold and lavender glory of dawn had given way to a cloudless, cyan sky as they had made the turnoff from the I26 West.

She had her nose pressed to the glass of the Impala's window, her eyes hungrily drinking in the rugged, wild splendor of northern Wyoming. It was mountain country.

While she marveled, Dean told her that the ragged, indistinct line of blue-grey smudges that marched along the skyline to their right, the somber, slate cast of the far off shapes making for a dusky contrast in tone against the bright azure of the spring sky, floating like a line of smoke or storm heads on the Eastern horizon, were the snowy peaks of the Bighorn Mountains. Their looming presence was mirrored to the West by the smaller, rolling purple foothills of the Owl Creek Mountains, the diminutive, East reaching arm of the mighty Abasarokas in the North, and the northern boundary of the tall Wind River Range to the South. They were traveling North along the Bighorn River towards Thermopolis, the largest city in Wyoming's Hot Springs County, population 3167. The city was nestled on the undulating plains and woody downs cradled between the mountain ranges, spreading outward from the South East corner of Hot Springs State Park. The park was home to the "Big Spring", the largest, single hot spring in the world which, along with its numerous smaller cousins, emptied into the Bighorn. Both park and city were bisected by the mighty river.

The rusty ochre, umber and sepia pigments of the mineral rich hills which enhanced the water of the many springs, punctuated a variegated tapestry of verdant greens. The pale, olive grass of the plains was woven through with valleys overflowing with the dark, shadowy beryl of pines and adorned with tangles of silvery chaparral and tawny sedge. The deep celadon of the firs and fresh, sage-coloured tint of the underbrush filled shallow vales between small, grassy knolls, or deeply cut gorges between high slopes with green faces and commanding grey outcrops of naked rock, where the granite heart of the hills was exposed. More coniferous copses were scattered about the landscape, sometimes covering the steep inclines, other times climbing their sides in ragged lines, or crowning their summits in dense thickets. Everywhere the deep chartreuse hue of the trees lay like a shadow on the faded backdrop of the plains, giving the fells a layered, patchwork complexion. The river wound blue through the shades of green; wide and shallow here, a meandering, dusty topaz presence reflecting the sky and the brush clinging to its banks in brakes and clumps; narrow and deep there, no more than a winding navy ribbon, the severity of the midnight water relieved only by the flashing cerulean swirl of an unexpected eddy. And then! Where the mineral-laden water of the hot springs, heated to scalding by the same veins of molten, liquid rock that had squeezed and compressed the land until it buckled and thrust skywards, forcing the soaring mountains into life, met the river, there was a wild, rushing spill of white plunging into the blue, stirring currents of cobalt, indigo and aquamarine to blossom within uniform, ultramarine depths, amid hissing pillars and billowing clouds of steam. And over it all hung the brilliant, sapphire canopy of the sky, the soaring blue vault and unbearable brightness of which, made even the mountains feel small, seeming to crawl along the surface of the earth rather than tower above it in comparison to the unfathomable height of those infinite, lapis heavens. Idly, Reggie wondered how the sky could possibly seem higher in one place than another.

The untamed majesty of it all, the deep, abiding sense of power and patience that permeated this landscape filled her with a sense of awe and peace. It felt as though the land itself was waiting, waiting for the small, inconsequential beings, which had intruded upon its splendid solitude, to pass the eons allotted their race and grow weary of existence, before fading into oblivion. Not really a great inconvenience to the indomitable mountains which were the spine of the earth, of whose mighty heart, a hundred millennia made up merely one beat. It should have been terrifying, that undeniable evidence of man's mortality, that feeling of smallness and insignificance but, to Reggie, it was merely a reminder that life would go on, not only in spite of what might happen to her, but even when there were no men left to dissect and catalogue it. It did not frighten, but rather comforted her. Reminded her that it was the mark she left on others, the lives she touched, that Sam and Dean touched, which mattered, because that was the only record you left of yourself upon the world. Love and courage were powerful enough to give birth to an energy that would remain even when the mountains were dust, and the earth herself could no longer recall the face of man.

Shaking her head at her own musings, a sarcastic little voice inside Reggie's mind took malicious pleasure in poking holes in her comforting philosophizing. _Dramatic much?, _it sneered. _So, you think that if you focus on this stoic, circle of life crap, everything will just go all Hakuna Matata?_

No. She didn't think that, but she was so tired of feeling like she was teetering on the edge, walking an emotional tightrope that constantly threatened to snap and send her tumbling into the yawning abyss of blackness that loomed all around. Every time she thought she'd reached a sure footing, Dean would do something to toss her back into the pull of the sweeping tide of their non-relationship, and Reggie feared that after yesterday, she was dangerously close to forgetting why she needed to swim for shore, she was dangerously close to drowning in the complex, enigmatic, beautiful disaster that was Dean Winchester. So, if to stave off those impulses of surrender and the fear that accompanied them, she needed to indulge in a little therapeutic escapism courtesy of the breathtaking grandeur of the natural masterpiece around her, then so be it.

_And you can go to hell_, she told the sniping voice, resisting the urge to worry about the fact that she was having conversations with herself, and that, to her amused horror, she was starting to find that Sam was right. She was starting to sound like Dean. And like him, she had found that the only way to deal with the continual emotional punches this wandering life incessantly delivered, was to pick up the pieces and just move ahead. As Winston Churchill had once said, "When you're going though hell, keep going!"

With that in mind, Reggie swiveled in her seat to look at Sam, who was in the back.

"So, what supernatural horror are we here to do away with?" she asked.

He was scratching his head as he looked at a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Not sure yet. All we know so far is that three women have gone missing from this area in the last two months. In each case, there were signs of the crime, mostly a lot of blood, but no bodies, none of them have been found, and there is _no_ evidence to suggest a suspect. As in, zero traces of human involvement."

"Um, okay, couldn't it just be a really cleaver murderer" she asked.

Sam nodded,

"It could be but, it's worth checking out, I mean, everyone leaves something behind. If these crime scenes really are as clean as the police reports say….." he shrugged.

"Okay" Reggie digested that, then said,

"So, where do we start?"

"The Church" said Dean, surprising her. He'd been unusually taciturn the entire journey.

"The Church?" Reggie repeated, confused.

"Yeah" said Sam, holding up a crinkled scrap of newspaper that had been papercliped to one of the reports.

"There's a memorial service being held for the third victim, Angela Hewitt" he held up the news clipping,

"At St. Francis' Catholic Church, today at 4:00. It'll be a good opportunity to do some background work."

"But….but, what are they burying? I thought you said they never recovered the bodies?" said Reggie.

Dean rolled his eyes before both brothers chorused in disgusted unison,

"It's for closure."

Looking from one Winchester to the other and wondering about the story behind that little display, Reggie nodded.

"Um, okay. So we're what, going to crash a funeral?"

"That's the plan" replied Dean.

"Of course it is" she sighed.

As it turned out, there were two St. Francis'. There was the smaller, old Parish Church, which Reggie guessed was early twentieth century, and a much newer and larger building that had been built in the 1970's. Happily, both were located on Arapahoe St., and friendly locals were able to direct the three to the appropriate house of worship. The memorial was being held at the old church, and the small, stone building had a rambling kind of charm, with many extensions and out-buildings protruding from the original, grey-fieldstone structure, a testament to the need for the larger sacred edifice down the street. Reggie made a valiant effort not to fidget as she walked through the heavy oak doors of the holy place, trailing behind Sam and Dean. She felt like the worst kind of impostor as she felt the rolling waves of grief ripple outward from the tight knots of somberly dressed people that were scattered about the pews and aisle of the nave. Many wore signs of sorrow on their faces that matched the pain in their hearts. Tear tracks and red eyes. Swollen noses and pale, drawn mouths. A small group of dark haired people, a man, a woman, and a young boy stood before the alter, speaking softly with a white-haired man in priests robes. The family, Reggie knew, a father, a mother and a brother. Their sadness was void of despondency so intense Reggie could almost see the echoing chasm of it engulfing them in darkness. And there was more than just grief here. There was rage and confusion and shock. _She was so young. She's really gone_, said the stricken look on Angela Hewitt's mother's face. _It isn't fair, It isn't fair_, roared the fury in her father's heart. _I don't understand_, whispered the tears in the little boy's eyes.

For a moment, Reggie hesitated. A part of her was reluctant to point out the mourning family to Dean and Sam. They would question and pester them. Prod and poke them, and Dean wouldn't necessarily be very sensitive or subtle about it, though he would be genuinely sorry.

_It's the only thing you can do for them_, said the quiet voice of reason in Reggie's mind, _Stop it from happening to someone else._ She could not use her gift to ease their pain, not when it was so new and so fresh. That would be to disrespect their loss, to cheat Angela of her due. She had been their daughter, had been the little boy's sister, had been the friend and neighbour of these people, she deserved to be missed. Besides, while she could have eased their immediate suffering, no power in the world could permanently soothe that ache. It would never entirely fade, and to interfere would be to hinder what healing could be done. It was, in some ways, the most frustrating thing about her gift. Reggie could feel the pain of others, but even when her gift would allow it, to simply remove those hurts was often not the best course of action. Take Sam and Dean for example. Their pain was what had driven them to become the men they were, it had been one of the single most defining factors in their lives, and their suffering had saved countless others. To remove that pain, to unravel the complex web of grief and torment and guilt that had brought them to this place, that had made them hunters, would be to unravel the brothers themselves. Pain often made us who we were, and Reggie loved who the Winchesters were, what they were, even if she abhorred the anguish which had forged them. She could not take away the pain that festered inside, without leaving a terrible hole in the men that were Sam and Dean, holes so vast they would be Sam and Dean no longer. No, what Reggie usually tried to do was to use her gift to get an accurate enough read on why people felt the pain, to allow her to help them find their own way to peace. Unfortunately, Sam and Dean were more twisted than her average customer, and she had a real issue staying objective when it came to the two men in her life.

Turning her attention back to the bereaved family, Reggie walked up behind Dean and tapped him on the shoulder.

He looked down at her and she pointed.

"That's Angela's family" she said quietly.

He hesitated and she knew he wanted to ask her how she knew, but he didn't, he just headed up the aisle towards the alter.

Blowing out a breath that ruffled her long bangs, Reggie turned a slow circle, wondering what to do next. Sam, like Dean, had moved off towards one of the huddles of mourners, and was using his killer puppy-dog face to glean information from the locals, and his charm to keep them from remembering that they didn't know him from Adam.

While she was wondering what in the hell they were expecting her to do, Reggie caught sight of a tall, gangling young man standing just off to the side of Angela's coffin. He didn't feel sad, just sort of numb.

Walking over to him, Reggie smiled softly, swallowing a laugh when he ducked his head and shuffled his feet nervously upon her approach. He was what you would have called painfully awkward. She guessed that he was in his mid teens, maybe fifteen, and all elbows, knees, and social unease. He was also lonely and shy, and a great deal akin to what Reggie imagined a young Sam had been like. He wormed his way under his skin as effortlessly as the young Winchester as well, with no more than one glance from pale blue eyes that held and expression caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, when she spoke to him.

"Hello" Reggie said softy, feeling as though she was in the company of a skittish colt. If she moved to quickly or made any sudden noises, she was positive he would bolt.

"I'm Reggie" she offered.

"Warren", came the monosyllabic reply.

"Hi Warren" Reggie looked at the closed wooden lid of the coffin.

"How did you know Angela?" she asked.

Warren's eyes darted up and Reggie caught a faint whisper of a feeling that struck her as out of place, but that she couldn't identify.

"School" said Warren. _Shuffle, Shuffle, _said his shiny brown loafers.

"Warren!" A short, lithe red-headed woman was hurrying towards Reggie and the boy.

One look at her ice-blue eyes told Reggie that she was Warren's mother.

"Oh honey, there you are!" She sounded exasperated, and then paused, gathering herself as she noticed Reggie.

"Hello. I'm Trisha Yonbeck, Warren's mother. Are you one of his friends from school? Did you know Angela too?"

"Ummm, no. I'm Reggie Thor"

"-ne." said Sam a little too loudly, coming up behind her.

"Reggie Thorne, and I'm" there was the tiniest of pauses,

"Her brother. Sam. Sam Thorne. We're new to the area."

It was news to Reggie, who plastered a smile on her face and nodded a little too vigorously, unnerved by Sam's casual lie. She'd forgotten that like the Winchesters, she could no longer just be herself.

"Oh" said Trisha,

"Well, it's nice to meet you. Will you sister be attending Hot Springs County High?" she inquired.

"Ummm, yeeesss." responded Sam slowly, trying to figure out what would be the best cover story, as Reggie shot him a killing look. That was the second time in the last five minutes that someone had assumed she was a high school student, and now Sam was confirming it!

"Well, that's nice. Now you already know someone! Warren will be your first friend." Trisha beamed at Reggie while indicating her viciously blushing son.

"Oh…..That's nice" said Reggie, and recovering quickly, tried to ease some of Warren's painful embarrassment.

"It's always nice to know someone when you're in a strange place."

"There now" said Trisha,

"Now that's settled, we really must be getting home. But I'm sure Warren will be seeing you around school dear. Bye!"

And with that she bustled off, her still crimson-faced son in tow.

"Sam!" cried Reggie, turning to give the younger Winchester a piece of her mind after being passed off as a teenager, but Dean interrupted.

"Hey" he strode up to them.

"You two get anything useful?"

"No" said Reggie shortly, still irritated.

"No much" admitted Sam.

Dean gave a slow smile.

"And people say you're the brains in the family. Well, I couldn't get much out of the family or the Padre but, Father Hyde over there, and what a piece of work he is, told the mother that since she didn't have last rites, Anglea's soul is languishing in purgatory" he gnashed his teeth,

"He did mention that they'd been attending private grief-counseling sessions with him" he paused to give the white-haired priest a glare,

"I'd hate to know what other little gems of psychotic, sadistic wisdom he's been dumping on them. I mean, no wonder the poor woman is such a mess. You don't need that kind of crap at a time like this! They've just lost their kid for God's sake!"

"Dean!" Sam hissed warningly, as a few heads turned towards the sound of the elder Winchester's increasingly vocal displeasure.

"Calm down" Sam ordered him, measuring the banked rage in his brother's eyes.

"Try to stay focused" he begged.

"Right" muttered Dean, shaking himself.

"Anyway, I'll bet he's got files just busting with interesting information in his office. He looks like a note-taker to me" he finished.

Sam nodded eagerly.

"That sounds promising. Why don't you and Reggie go and check that out, while I keep the good Father busy."

He took off without waiting for an answer. Reggie was still glaring and he was keen to escape the consequences of her pique.

Dean, oblivious to cause of her annoyance, gave her arm a none to gentle tug.

"It's this way" he told her.

"Dean!" Reggie hissed five minutes later, as she kept watch while he picked the lock on the heavy wooden door that read,

"Father. A. Hyde".

"We shouldn't be breaking into a priest's office!"

"Why?" he tossed back.

"Because he's a priest?" he shrugged.

"Believe me, that guy's no angel." Reggie rolled her eyes at his easy irreverence.

"See?" he grinned cheekily as the lock clicked and the door swung open,

"The wrath of God hath not smote me. Maybe he doesn't like Father Hyde either" he suggested with calculated impudence.

That just got another eye roll as she walked past him into the room.

Dean headed directly for the heavy wooden desk, motioning Reggie towards a squat, manila coloured filing cabinet.

She'd barely finished flipping through the A's when they both heard it.

"It's just this way" said a voice Reggie didn't recognize.

"I've got several extra's in my desk" it continued.

Then there was Sam's desperate,

"No really, I shouldn't take you away from the Hewitts, they really need you at a time like this…."

"Nonsense dear boy" responded the other voice.

"I'm always ready to lend an encouraging hand to those young men who feel that they have been called by God to join the Holy Orders."

Dean shook his head,

"Really Sammy?" he muttered despairingly under his breath,

"That's the best you could come up with?"

"Dean!" Reggie whispered, putting the emphasis in her eyes rather than her tone, since the two voices now sounded as though they were right outside the door.

"What do we do?" she mouthed, panicked.

Dean's sharp green gaze did a quick scan of their surroundings. Moving swiftly, he grabbed Reggie by the arm and, yanking open the wooden door at the opposite end of the room, thrust Reggie inside and crowded in after her.

"Dean" she began in a low whisper,

"This is a _closet."_ The last word was mumbled into his shirt, because, they were indeed in a closet, a very small, very, narrow, very _intimate_ space.

They stood in the dark, pressed uncomfortably together, Breathing each other's breath and trying not to look one another in the eye, while Sam and the priest rambled on in the room outside.


	65. Chapter 65

AN: Arrgh! I tried soooo hard to get this ready before Thurs. for Neha. But I dunno if I managed it. I'm not sure whereabouts you are, and if the time difference will help any (crosses fingers and toes). LOL. I had forgotten about the Confessional scene in BIT, I guess great minds think alike. Or we all have a twisted thing for Deansmut and the desecration of holy places! Anyway. Not to keep you in suspense. Enjoy!

Edit: Hey guys. Okay, like I said, I wrote this Chap. really fast to try and be done for Thurs. So, I thought it was a bit lacking, esp. the Dean/Reggie stuff, so, I've just, fixed it up a bit. If you preffered the old version, don't hesitate to let me know!

p.s. this is officially the longest PFK chapter ever.

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The closet was cramped, stuffy, and barely wide enough to accommodate the breadth of Dean's shoulders. As it was, he was standing with his right arm pressed against the door and his left shoulder buried in the assortment of jackets and vestments dangling from the low metal rod that hung parallel with his chin. Reggie was pressed against his front and his left arm was around her waist. Their feet and legs were uncomfortably tangled due to the rapid, uncoordinated way in which they had shoved and squeezed themselves into the small space. Reggie's feet were too far in front of her and the only thing keeping her standing upright, was Dean's supporting arm. Of course, it was also keeping her close, very close, to the hard heat of his big body. And as tense and nervous as she was about the possibility of discovery ("Well you see father…..", she shuddered as she imagined trying to talk her way out of that one), his intimate proximity was something she just couldn't ignore. They were both taking slow, deep breaths, trying to calm their racing nerves and be quiet. Outside, Father Hyde's voice droned on about vocation and the need for young people in the church.

Every time Dean shifted against her Reggie got a mouthful of flannel, her face was level with the centre of his chest. She felt tiny and fragile, and far too aware of her own delicate femininity, when confronted with the size and power of Dean's body in the close room. Automatically shutting off those thoughts, she tried to ease back from him, tugging lightly on her right foot were it was caught between his. He immediately looked down at her and shook his head. Reggie ignored him and tugged again, more insistently, and attempted to lean back away from him, so she could rest her back against the side wall behind her. It was only about half a foot but, at this point she needed to put some distance, any distance, between them. She saw his jaw flex as he gritted his teeth, and stifled a little gasp when he leaned down towards her, bending her body into the curve of his. She wanted to demand what the hell he thought he was doing but, she hadn't the breath, and besides, Father Hyde might hear her. Clearly that was Dean's worry as well, because he contorted his body uncomfortably until he could put his mouth right next to her ear. Reggie tried not to shiver when his warm breath washed over the sensitive skin of her neck, as he spoke to her in a whisper so soft it was almost inaudible, despite the fact he was murmuring directly into her ear.

"Stop it. If you keep doing that we're going to overbalance and they're going to hear us" he admonished her.

Nodding mutely, Reggie breathed a silent sigh of relief when he straightened again. She craned her neck and leaned back a bit so she could see his face. His eyes were closed and beads of sweat were starting to form on his forehead. She prayed for Father Hyde to hurry up.

Just when she thought she was going to scream from the strain of remaining tense and silent in the hot, uncomfortable confines of the closet, trapped between the wall and Dean, she heard Sam say,

"Well, thanks a lot father. I should really go and find my sister and brother. I'll talk to you later."

Thanking God or whatever deity might be listening, Reggie waited impatiently to hear the bang of wood on wood that would signify that the door to the office had been closed behind Sam and the priest.

When it finally came, she let out a long, ragged sigh and jerked back sharply from Dean, banging into the wall as she did so.

"Christ" he snarled, batting at the wire hangers that were stabbing him in the neck.

"What in the hell is beside my foot? I couldn't even move it to get a better balance."

Confused, Reggie felt out with her own foot and found that Dean was right, there was something at the back of the closet that was keeping her from touching the rear wall. It was almost directly under the hanging garments. Shoving the clothes aside, she gave a short laugh.

They were steps. Steps that led to nowhere. The three steep stairs simply faded into the back wall.

"I don't get it" said Dean, scratching his head.

Reggie shook hers.

"It's not uncommon in old buildings. This probably used to be a tiny hallway leading into a stairwell, and they closed it off into a closet because they weren't going to use the steps anymore. Probably during one of the renovations. There's a setup just like this in my godmother's apartment in New York."

Dean just grunted.

"Yeah, whatever. Can you reach behind me and get the door? I don't wanna try to turn around in here" he said, eyeing the wire hangers and rubbing his throat.

Muttering under her breath Reggie did as he asked, reaching her arm around his lean waist and running her fingers over the wood of the old door to find the handle.

_At least this will all be over in a minute, s_he comforted herself as she stretched further, resting her face against Dean's chest so that she could sweep her arm out as far as it would go, and trying to pretend the flex and roll of muscle under her cheek didn't make her mouth dry. Her fingers met nothing but the smooth, satin texture of the polished oak.

Disbelievingly, Reggie swept her hand back and forth and then up and down with growing alarm.

"What's taking so long?!" Dean demanded.

Reggie pulled back to look at him, her shock and dismay clear of her face.

"There's no handle on the inside!" she cried.

"What?" snapped Dean, shoving aside the hangers and turning jerkily in the small space so he could face the door. Hissing in irritation he yanked out the small flashlight he kept in his pocket and aimed it at the wood.

Reggie was right, there was no handle.

"Now what do we do?" She sounded a little panicky.

"Relax." Dean told her.

"Sam will come looking for us soon enough. He'll probably check everywhere else first since he was just in here and it appeared that we weren't but, once he sees that the Impala is still in the lot, he'll know we haven't left and he'll fall back on a basic, methodical, room by room sweep. He'll find us" he assured her confidently.

"Can't you just call him?" asked Reggie.

"Oh" said Dean, digging for his cell phone with a slightly sheepish expression,

"I forgot."

Reggie rolled her eyes.

The truth of the matter was, he'd been distracted, again. Having Reggie pressed up against him was something his over-charged, over-sensitive system just couldn't handle. He was wound so tight all the time, just from being around her, that it took next to nothing to have him breaking out in a cold sweat. And it looked like the fates had more punishment of a similar kind in store for him.

He held the phone out so Reggie could see the glowing face. It read,

_No service. _

"Not really surprising" he muttered.

"The walls in this place are probably a foot of solid stone."

"So now what?" demanded Reggie.

Dean shrugged,

"Now we wait."

The minutes ticked by slowly, turning into hours. Dean had long ago shed his outer shirt and was now sitting with his back against the wall, dressed only in his light black tee-shirt, on the middle step at the back of the closet with his legs bent in front of him. That left Reggie nowhere to go. She was trapped in the far corner, leaning against the side wall with Dean's long legs hemming her in from the front. There was no room for her to sit beside him in the narrow space and her back, legs and feet were aching from standing in the same position for so long, every muscle held taut, squishing herself into the corner to make sure that she didn't touch Dean. She was also hot and uncomfortable, but still thoroughly unwilling to remove her own navy button-down, even though she was wearing a white tank top beneath it. Being around Dean just somehow made her feel so exposed. She looked back at him. His eyes were closed and he looked totally relaxed. Back to his cool, calm, removed self, while she was still reeling over what had happened yesterday, and all the things he made her feel against her will. In fact, if she hadn't known better, she'd have said he was asleep. She licked her lips unconsciously as her eyes roved over the dip of his biceps and down the length of his muscled forearms to the long-fingered, wide palmed hands that rested laxly on his knees.

_Bastard_. She thought crankily. It wasn't fair, that he should always be so unaffected, and she should always have to suffer.

_It's your own fault_, She told herself ruthlessly. _It isn't his fault that you can't even look at him without drooling. And it isn't his fault that he doesn't want you back._

_Who says he doesn't! _interrupted another voice.

_There was something going on at the market yesterday, _it pointed out.

_Yeah_, Reggie dismissed the second voice, _But_ _that's just Dean being Dean._ She knew for a fact that it had been quite some time since he'd had the chance to indulge in any of his preferred 'recreational activities', and that he must be getting…..frustrated. She was after all, a girl, and he was a guy, and in the absence of other, more tempting candidates, he was experiencing a normal physical reaction to her. One that clearly wasn't very compelling, because he certainly hadn't tried to do anything about it.

_Not that you want him to!_ She reminded herself sternly.

Grousing silently to herself, Reggie cautiously lifted one leg and extended the knee, not quite able to hold back a stifled groan as the sore, cramped muscles stretched. Concentrating on relaxing, she rotated her aching ankle in slow circles, trying to restore some of the circulation to her stiff limbs.

"What are you doing?"

She jerked her chin up to find Dean watching her.

"Nothing" she muttered hurriedly, pulling her leg back.

"Is it sore?" he asked quietly, ignoring her remark.

"Not really" she lied.

He sighed.

"Come here."

Reggie shook her head and put her hands behind her back like a nervous schoolgirl.

"I'm fine."

"God I'm tired of arguing with you" said Dean in a heavy voice.

And it was true. Every time he turned around she was telling him no, or accusing him of something, or just plain being a pain in the butt.

_You're just making excuses,_ he disagreed with himself.

_What you really mean is, I can't even look at her without getting a hard on, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to survive this, because I can't seem to snap out of it!_

None of that mattered right now. What mattered was that they were stuck here in this goddamned furnace, and she was, as usual, stubbornly insisting that she didn't need his help, because she still didn't trust him.

He was so sick of it.

Without another word, Dean reached out an grabbed Reggie by the wrist. He gave one sharp yank and the unexpected assault had her tumbling off her feet and into his lap. Before she could so much as blink, she found herself righted and rearranged until she was sitting sideways across Dean's bent knees, both her legs hanging over his left, in an easy display of strength that left her a little breathless.

"What the hell…" she sputtered.

"You're welcome" he said and, anchoring his right arm around her waist because he knew damn well that if he didn't she'd try to climb off him, he nonchalantly leaned back and closed his eyes again.

Reggie sat still for a minute trying to decide if she wanted to take issue with Dean's high-handed tactics.

_You were being kind of contrary,_ she told herself.

_Like I said before, it's not his fault! He's only trying to help. Your knees hurt and, now they don't._

That much was true. Her body was, on one level, much more comfortable now, ensconced in Dean's lap, and on another level, it had just sky-rocketed to a whole new plane of hyper-awareness.

_God!_ Reggie thought silently, as she registered the feel of Dean's hard, muscled thighs under her bottom, the coiled power in the arm lying loosely about her waist, the size of the hand that sat on her hip, and the heat radiating from the broad wall of his chest.

_He's so….solid._

And yet at the same time, the hard contours of his body were somehow inviting, a deliciously masculine and complimentary contrast to her own femininity. And there was a part of Reggie that wanted to snuggle into him, to feel her softness yield to his strength, to let his heat steal into her. She was positive that Dean's arms would be the most comfortable, secure haven she'd ever known. She was safe with him, from all the frightening things that lived in his strange world, and indeed, from anything really, that was…..out there. But what was going to protect her from the danger Dean himself presented to her? The unending pull he seemed to exert on her senses, her body, and on her heart. Nothing had changed. He was still a hunter who believed in no other way of life, she had hard proof of that. She was still too weak and too cowardly to try and make him see that there could be more, because that would give him power over her in a way she could not allow. To open him to possibility, she'd have to open herself, and that was just too risky. She might not be able to hold onto herself, she was having enough trouble as it was, and if she held nothing back, then she'd have nothing left when he left.

_No that he's interested anyway_, she affirmed to herself.

She looked at his impassive, sedate expression.

_See_, _nary a sign of agitation or awareness in sight. You might as well not even be here. He's told you a million times, you don't have to worry, he's not going to jump you._

_Too bad, _whispered the other voice.

Reggie blushed in the dimly lit interior of the closet and viciously shut that voice up.

_You really don't need to go there._

But it was sort of hard not to. He smelled ridiculously good. Not of cologne or aftershave, but of sun and wind and leather and…Dean. She could feel his heat and hardness around her, and she was mere inches from that face she loved so much. She could count the tiny bronze freckles that danced across his nose. Could see the shadows his preposterously long lashes cast on his cheeks. She could have easily reached out and traced the subtle arch of his eyebrows, or run her finger down the length of his straight nose. Or, she could lean in a little and nibble on that brutally sexy, pouting lower lip. This up close and personal, he was…..stunning, magnetic, and Reggie was unexpectedly caught by the overwhelming beauty in that face. It was somehow more vulnerable, softer, with the burning intensity of those emerald eyes masked. She stared, fascinated by the shadow of stubble that shaded the square jaw and the high, blunt cheekbones.

Dean sat quietly, with his eyes closed, and read Reggie's journey through annoyance to acceptance, to a subtle softening, in her body language.

She was a warm, supple weight in his arms and he took deep, steady breaths, reminding himself that in this position, it was going to be damn awkward if he got excited, because there was nowhere to hide.

_Down boy!_ He thought with a silent, mirthless chuckle.

When he felt Reggie lean in a little towards him, he resisted the urge to open his eyes and see what she was doing, because he knew for a hard fact that, if she had _that_ look on her face, the one were her golden eyes had that bewildered light of desire in them, and her lips were soft and parted in unconscious invitation, he was a gonner.

Even the thought of it had his pants becoming uncomfortably tight.

_Where the hell are you Sam!?_ He thought a bit desperately, being careful to keep his outward demeanor calm and relaxed.

Reggie was so engrossed in her study of Dean's face, that she hadn't really noticed that she'd leaned so far forward they were practically nose to nose. So, when Dean suddenly opened his eyes and she found the piercing green orbs an inch from her own, she let out a muffled shriek of surprise and embarrassment, and nearly toppled backwards off of him.

"Whoa!" He cried out, grabbing her quickly and hauling her back against his chest.

"Oh!" Reggie gave vent to a little cry of pure frustration.

What was wrong with her!

"What?" demanded Dean. His hands gentling and sweeping up her arms to her shoulders,

"I didn't hurt you did I?"

"No" said Reggie, pushing a bit desperately at his stroking hands.

That was all she needed.

"I think I want to get up" she announced, and proceeded to stand up.

"Hey" Dean pulled her back down.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"Nothing" she shook her head resolutely as she continued to try to slither off his lap.

"Absolutely nothing."

His face hardened.

"I'm getting really tired of having this conversation" he snapped.

"How many times do I have to tell you" he began, but Reggie held up a hand to forestall him.

"That I can't tempt you into jumping me" she said flatly.

"I know."

"Then what's the problem?" He looked confused.

"Nothing" she muttered again, and made a third attempt to get up.

He held her down.

"Dean" she snarled,

"Let. Me. Up."

"No."

"Argh!" Reggie ran her hands through her hair in frustration, knocking out pins and making wayward locks of tawny gold fall forward to caress his cheek.

Dean refused to be distracted by how good her hair smelled.

"I want to know what's up with you" he said.

"I thought we had a deal. You're supposed to trust me. Remember!"

"I remember" Reggie sighed.

"It's not you I don't trust. I have no illusions about my own appeal Dean. You don't have to keep saying how easy it is for you to resist me."

As soon as those slightly sullen words were out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. Damnit! This was what he did to her. Scrambled her brain until she was doing and saying things she normally never would. She never said anything without thinking it through first! It was too easy to unintentionally give people ammunition to use against you when you did that. And yet, here she'd gone and dropped a torpedo big enough to sink the Titanic right into Dean's lap.

To irritated and wound up to want to do anything other than get the inevitable awkwardness and strain over with,

she turned a resigned, non nonsense gaze on him. And blinked in surprise.

He looked stunned.

"What?" he asked slowly.

"What what?" She snapped.

"What do you mean, 'you have no illusions about your own appeal'?"

Now it was Reggie's turn to blink with surprise.

"You want to talk about my self-esteem issues?" she inquired carefully, not wanting to draw his attention to the "It's not you I don't trust" bit, if he'd somehow managed to miss it.

He nodded.

"What did you mean by that?" he repeated.

Blowing out a breath, Reggie felt herself relax a little. He hadn't caught her little slip, she wouldn't have to go into some mortifying expose on how she was having trouble keeping her hands off him. Thank God. Not that this wouldn't be a little awkward but, she had long ago accepted the fact that when it came to men, the only thing that attracted them was her body. She wasn't naive, she'd basically been built like this since she was thirteen. And she'd endured all of the slimy, lecherous, and purely sexual attention that came with it, ever since. Often from men several times her age. It had nothing to do with being beautiful, and nothing to do with being attractive, which was why good men, men like Dean, were never drawn to her in anything more than a sexual way. And in his case, even that enticement seemed pretty weak.

"I mean that I know I'm not the shiniest diamond in the shop, as my grandmother used to say." She said it matter of factly, without self-pity, and with a self-deprecating smile. But it wasn't any of those things that had Dean's jaw dropping. It was the absolute conviction that he heard in her voice, which left him in no doubt that she absolutely believed what she was saying. But he had to ask, just to be sure.

"You don't think you're beautiful?"

Reggie shifted in his arms, feeling the vestiges of her earlier annoyance return. Did they really have to beat it over the head like this!

"I'm not." It was a simple statement of fact.

"But you are!" Dean blurted out, still too flummoxed by the incredible revelation that Reggie clearly thought she was somehow lacking, to be more articulate.

Now she frowned at him,

"That's sweet Dean, but really, I don't need to be patronized."

"I am not patronizing you." When she would have rolled her eyes and looked away he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

"I mean it." His voice was low and intense, and the way he was looking at her made something dark and hot flutter in the pit of Reggie's stomach. To her horror, she felt tears begin to gather in her eyes, because he was being so considerate, and trying to make her feel better and, for the first time in her life, she genuinely wished to be beautiful, for him.

"I think I really don't want to have this conversation anymore" she said firmly, turning her head and blinking furiously.

_Well hell_. Thought Dean to himself. Of all the ironies, here he was, doing his damndest to make sure she never figured out exactly what kind of torturous, sweaty, slippery, gut-wrenching _need_ he felt for her, because she was so beautiful it hurt, and all he had to do was look at her, hell, not even, he could get hard as a rock just from hearing her voice, from thinking of her, from the lingering scent of her shampoo on the steam laden air in the shower, when she took her turn in the bathroom before him. Not to mention that he recognized the fact that he was becoming dangerously and rather hopelessly enamored of her. Drawn in by her strength and her courage and her sweetness in a way no physical allure, no matter how enchanting or seductive, could ever compete with. He was just refusing to admit it.

And she thought she was ugly, or how had she put it, unappealing.

It was so absurd it was funny. Dean laughed out loud.

Reggie's mouth dropped open.

"What's funny!?" she demanded.

Dean's eyes held a dark amusement.

"You. Me. This" he waved a hand.

"You think it's funny" she said again, enunciating every word precisely.

She had to admit, while she hadn't expected him to be a bleeding heart, she also hadn't expected him to make fun of her. For God's Sake, two seconds ago he'd been reassuring her that she was wrong. It was the same formulaic denial she'd gotten all her life, from her mother, and her Gran, her friends. But, facts were facts. She couldn't seem to attract any nice, decent men, who were interested in her for anything other than sex. Add that to her already colossal trust issues, cheers Daddy, and well, she was one helluva mess and she knew it. Who could possibly want her?

"Reggie" Dean's voice broke into her despondent thoughts.

"What" she said curtly, wishing he would let her go, but refusing to give him the satisfaction of struggling and failing against his greater strength again.

"You. Are. Gorgeous." He said firmly.

"I mean, for God's Sake, you can't possibly tell me that you honestly can't see" he made a subtle hand gesture towards her curvaceous body,

"Well, you know" he trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. How did you tell a girl like Reggie that her body had essentially been designed for mind-blowing sex?

Her mouth flattened into a hard line.

"Well that's not really the same thing, is it?" She said softly.

"It isn't?" said Dean, not catching on.

Reggie threw up her hands. Fine, if he wanted to have this conversation, she'd do it. She'd do anything to get out of here and away from him. Away from the stifling, smothering feelings of helplessness and worthlessness and self-pity. God, she hated that.

"No, Dean. It's not. I'm perfectly aware that men like my body" she snapped bluntly.

"Could have fooled me" he returned.

She shifted uncomfortably.

"Just because sometimes I'm not paying attention to, well, their attentions….It's because that doesn't really have anything to do with me, does it? And it doesn't have anything to do with being beautiful. They don't want _me. _It's got to do with sex, and that's it."

"Not always" he murmured quietly.

"Sometimes it can be both."

She snorted inelegantly.

"Sure. Cause that's the way it worked with you right?"

Reggie clapped a hand over her mouth as her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach. She'd done it again! This wasn't supposed to be about him! Finally overcome by mortification and distress, she struggled, frantic now, to crawl off of Dean. She couldn't bear to be so close to him…..It was destroying her. Look what had happened, how exposed she'd left herself!

"Reggie!" Dean's voice was deep and vibrated with something she couldn't name. She refused to reach out to him with her gift when she was like this. The turmoil within could colour what she read, or could transfer to him. Shutting him out, she subsided in his iron grip and turned her face away, feeling shame and self-loathing streak through her, leaving a burning residue that threatened to choke her. She was always so Goddamned weak!

"You think that I don't want you?" His voice was strained and hoarse.

She shouldn't answer.

"I think that what you feel for me is purely physical. The same way you feel about any woman with big breasts, only not even, because you clearly aren't_ all that_ interested. And that's fine" she hurried on, desperate to repair some of the façade she'd just ripped down, leaving herself naked.

"It's not like I think you should be or anything. It's just….oh!" She choked on the sob that rose in her throat rather than voicing it, but still, she couldn't go on.

_You are so pathetic_ she chastised herself, as the violent tide of contempt and hopelessness washed over her.

Dean watched in silent astonishment, as Reggie fell apart a little in his arms. Not the whole way. She was too bloody stubborn, and too strong for that, not even now, when she was obviously so distraught, did she let the last of those walls crumble. She was resisting him to the point where she wasn't even listening to what he was trying to tell her. Shut off in her own little world where her worthlessness and lack of desirability were foregone conclusions.

Well, if she wouldn't listen, he would show her. Closing his eyes and praying for the strength to be able to show Reggie the furious, vivid violence of what she evoked within him, without tossing them both over the edge of the cliff he'd been so hell-bent on avoiding, he didn't even stop to consider how uncharacteristic it was, that he would be willing to risk those consequences, risk anything, to take the inconsolable, vacant look from her eyes.

Tightening his grip on her waist because he knew that, at least initially, she would probably fight him, Dean raised his other hand and slid open the first button on her dark blue shirt, smiling slightly at the way she had the tiny row of fasteners done up all the way to her chin. He felt the unnatural stillness that instantly came over her.

"Dean?" Her voice was raw and a little querulous.

"What are you doing?" Reggie asked, her heart stuttering beneath his fingers as he slid open another button, tucking the material aside and exposing the creamy skin at the vulnerable hollow of her throat. He could see her pulse quicken as his eyes swept hotly over her, taking in the dilated pupils and parted lips.

"Proving you wrong" he said simply, and the low, husky quality of his voice skated over her skin, a dark caress that made her shudder helplessly.

"Dean…" she tried again, only to lose the word in a little gasp, when he turned his head and his lips nuzzled her ear, his hot breath fluttering against her neck.

"_Dean."_ Now it was low cry, caught between the desire he'd so suddenly and effortlessly fanned to life within her, and unadulterated shock at his actions.

"Hmmm?" he rumbled into her hair, where he had momentarily pressed his face, drinking in the clean, fresh scent of her honey-suckle shampoo and finding reserves of self-control he hadn't even known he had. Now that he had accepted that he was going to do it, finally slide one foot across the inviolable line he'd drawn for himself, he was strangely calm. He could do it, he would do it, for her. Because she deserved to know, needed to know, how beautiful she was. As a woman. A beautiful, sexy, desirable woman, who managed to combine a body that promised straight up, sweaty, sinfully hot sex, a delicate, sensually beautiful face, stubborn strength, and aching, innocent vulnerability, into a potent, practically fucking irresistible package he was sure would haunt him until his dying day.

Returning to the fragile shell of her ear, Dean let his tongue dart out, the damp tip tracing the sensitive rim .

She made the most incredible little purring sound.

He smiled darkly.

"Did you like that?" he whispered hotly.

"I………I" her voice trembled and faded as his hand slid inside her shirt to stroke over her satin skin. He trailed the hard, roughened tip of his index finger slowly over her collarbone and up the sensitive underside of her throat. She swallowed, hard. The touch wasn't particularly carnal, but if he'd thought that Reggie would miss the burning sensuality or the possession in the simple caress, he was wrong. She shivered as those long, calloused fingers slid along her jaw and into her hair, his touch light, teasing. Cupping her face, he held her still while he continued his slow seduction of her ear. His teeth grazed lightly over the tender lobe, before closing over the delicate flesh, drawing it into his mouth and suckling gently.

"Oh" Reggie's breath exploded out in a little moan when she felt the hot, liquid heat of Dean's mouth envelope her.

"See?" he murmured, releasing the captive flesh and using the hand cradling her face to tilt her head to the side so he could work his way down the side of her neck, his lips brushing and rubbing over her skin, only to be replaced by the wet, textured glide of his tongue. Every time he tasted her she felt a silvery stitch of desire pierce through her.

"Sss-eee, wha-t?" she gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder to give him better access as he kissed and licked her throat. His big hands smoothed down her body, pausing to measure her small waist, before coming to settle on the flare of her hips. He squeezed gently, testing the resilience of her supple flesh, allowing his thumbs to edge beneath the hem of her shirt and stroke the soft skin of her stomach above the waistband of her jeans. Liquid fire sluiced through her veins in the wake of his touch, connecting all the little pinpoints of pleasure into a web of sensual lightening, and she twisted against his tormenting hands, seeking more.

"It isn't just physical."

"This….isn't…physical?" she managed to force out between little pants as her hand fisted in his shirt and her neck arched, when he began to nibble his way along her jaw, his left hand sliding across her stomach to grip the hip farthest from him, while his right traveled back up to once again run his fingers along the side of her face. His thumb dragged tantalizingly over her bottom lip as his mouth continued its maddening attentions. Instinctively, she licked the rough pad of flesh caressing her, and was rewarded with a deep, guttural groan.

"Damn!" Dean sucked in his breath. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. Somehow he hadn't expected her to give in so easily, the way she'd practically melted into his touch had his blood boiling and his body screaming for release. He struggled to resist the urge to crush her in his arms, to grind his hardness against her soft heat and, _God_! he wanted his tongue in her mouth.

Then he remembered her earlier comment and smiled a little. She was so Goddamed stubborn.

"You think this is just physical!?" He demanded, raising his head and forcing her to look at him, holding up his hand so she could see the fine tremors running through it.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he ground out, his voice dropping to an even lower register and becoming increasingly gravelly with the thick resonance of his arousal.

Before she could answer, he shifted, deliberately causing her to slide forward until she could feel the rock-hard proof of his want for her.

"Do you honestly think," he continued, holding her eyes with his scorching green gaze, while he deliberately bent his head again to caress her, this time raising her hand so he could map the dainty blue veins that ran beneath the surface of the skin of her wrist with his tongue, eliciting a hot, needy little sound that made his painfully aroused flesh tighten even more.

"That if this were just physical, I wouldn't have had you by now!?"

It was an arrogant claim, one that Reggie wanted to protest, but how could she? She'd been reduced to a quivering mass of sensation in his arms by no more than a few quick flicks oh his tongue over her skin.

"Believe me" he continued ruthlessly, turning her slightly so that her could nose his way through the hair at the back of her neck and bite her sensitive nape.

She gasped again and he pulled her head back around to that she was once again staring into his eyes as he feasted on her throat, licking, sucking and biting, mercilessly intensifying the pressure building inside her.

"If this was just about your body, or a quick fuck, I promise you" his eyes blazed into hers,

"You'd be riding me, naked. Right here. Right now. And I'd be swallowing your screams." His hand tightened reflexively on her hip as his mind indulged in the visceral fantasy.

The image his crude words elicited made Reggie blush wickedly, but they also made the tingling heat that had been coiling in her belly flood outwards, leaving her whole body aching for him, for...that.

Shaken and unbearably aroused by the depth of the passion he'd shown her, Reggie leaned in towards him, sliding around until she was straddling him, all thought banished by the fire he'd coaxed into life, that was now rioting uncontrollably through her. Focused on turning titillating fantasy into reality.

The vicious hammer blow of lust that slammed into Dean when he felt Reggie shift until she sat astride him, lifting and resettling her weight so that his throbbing, denim-encased erection was cradled snugly between her legs, his aching flesh pressed against the heat at the apex of her thighs, would have driven him to his knees if he hadn't already been sitting down. His agonized moan mixed with her husky, inarticulate sound of pleasure as she arched her back, pressing against him, her hands covering his where they instinctively gripped her hips, pulling her down hard against the cloth-covered bulge of his viciously aroused cock, his breath tearing and heart pounding.

Reggie knew nothing but Dean now. The feel of his hands and his body, the burn of the flames he called forth from within her. Her eyes were pools of molten gold when they fixed onto his. Her hands ran up his arms and kneaded over the muscles in his shoulders, sliding up the back of his neck and tugging on his short, soft hair, drawing him close. Their mouths were less than an inch apart, her breath hot on his lips.

"Kiss me" she whispered, for his light, tantalizing touch was no longer enough to satisfy the hunger he'd awakened. She wanted to be touched, to be taken, to be possessed.

Something wild and almost frightening flashed momentarily in his eyes at the sound of her breathy supplication, the feel of her hands stroking over him. The almost unbearable temptation of her parted lips. It was like something out of his dreams. But…

"No."

He saw the shock register, and then, anger.

Part of her was furious with him, for manipulating her this way. In his own way, he was trying to reassure her but, he was also trying to frighten her. To show her that she wasn't in control. That it wasn't about whether or not he wanted her, it was about whether or not he decided he was going to act on it. And he'd decided not.

"Nothing's changed Reggie" his voice was gentle, and he pulled her suddenly stiffened body back against him, tucking her head under his chin and sweeping his hands over her in slow, gentle strokes, now meant to soothe away, rather than incite, the unbridled craving he had no intention of satisfying with the hard promise of his body.

Still feeling hot, aroused, and very confused, Reggie sat back to look Dean in the eye.

She couldn't, they were closed and his brow was beaded with sweat as he fought the savage desire raging through him. She could see the strain on his features, feel the clenched tension in his body between her legs. The obvious contest between the ferocity of his need and his iron control fascinated her.

When he finally harnessed it, he opened his eyes to find her staring.

"I don't think I understand" she whispered carefully.

Dean grimaced at her in an attempt at a smile. Sighing deeply, he tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear and said,

"It's not about wanting you Reggie, on a lot of levels. But _nothing has changed_. This still isn't a good idea. I…' he closed his eyes again, and when their jade depths were once again revealed, they held a cutting pain and terrible desperation.

"I just can't. Don't you get it, you're too. Too…" he waved his hands the way he always did when he couldn't find the words.

"I think I do" said Reggie softly, amazed at what she was seeing. It looked like she'd been right, and also very, _very_, wrong. Dean did want her, but, he was as afraid of what might happen between them as she was. She responded to the abject fear and raw, disconsolate anguish she felt inside him, as much as his words.

"It's alright" she murmured soothingly.

He looked deeply into her eyes,

"I need you to help me" he said softly.

"It can't happen. This" he gestured, indicating she knew, the burning intimacy they had just shared,

"Never again. But you're so beautiful. I just, wanted to show you….".

"I know."

"Dean!" called Sam from outside the door.


	66. Chapter 66

AN: Hello all. Sorry for the wait as always. These emotional fallout chapters are sooooo hard to write, even though not that much actually happens in them. Hope you all enjoy. I've finally finished up my research on this hunts mythology, so, I'm hoping to have the next chapter up soon. Enjoy!

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Reggie jerked sharply when she heard Sam's muted voice in the room outside, but hadn't time to do more than blink in surprise as Dean stood swiftly, his hands still on her hips, lifting her off of his lap and setting her on her feet even as he ducked his head to avoid the low hanging closet rod. Moving brusquely by her, he inclined his head towards the wood.

"Sam? We're in here." His voice was still rough with the vestiges of unfulfilled desire, the edges dark with turmoil.

There was the muffled thump of footsteps moving toward the door, and then Sam's voice sounded again, closer and much more clearly.

"How in the hell did you manage that?"

Dean grunted irritably at the amusement in his brother's tone and answered,

"Nevermind. Just get us the hell out!"

Sam chuckled,

"Hold your horses. I'm comin'."

Inside the closet the air was still thick with tension, Dean's shoulders were stiff with it as he stood with his back to Reggie, waiting for his brother to free him from her, she thought ironically. Somewhere, somehow, she realized that she'd become a trap for him, as much as he for her. And they were both terrified of being snared. For her part, Reggie was feeling strangely numb. It was already as if the bubble of intimacy forced upon them by the small space, which had wrung such unwilling confessions from both, was collapsing on itself. The experience of having Dean caress her with such leashed, sensual intensity in the hot, hushed silence of the closet seeming surreal, as though it had happened in a dream, or to someone else. At least, that's what she would have thought if her skin hadn't still been sensitized and tingling from the caress of his hands and mouth, and there hadn't been a warm, moist ache between her legs. If she hadn't still been wearing the flush of desire on her cheeks, and if his set posture and determination not to look at her hadn't spoken of things that needed to be forgotten.

He hadn't even kissed her.

Reggie thought it was ridiculous that she should be upset over such a thing, but what she had sensed within Dean, his pain, pain that she had caused, however inadvertently, was something she could not help but respond to, respect. She would help him, there would be no more dark, secret moments where forbidden desire overcame them. She might have feared her ability to resist him physically, in fact she'd just been shown, point blank, that she _could not_.

_Don't you think I would've had you by now._

Dean's words rang in her mind and she rubbed her arms, suddenly cold despite the close quarters and cramped heat. He was right, if he'd wanted her, he would have had her, and she'd have begged him, screamed for him, just as he'd said. The knowledge was a ball of ice in her stomach, cold and hard, freezing her form the inside out. But even feeling that terror surge within, that certainty of her own weakness, she knew in the end it would be Dean's pain that kept her at bay, not her own fear. Oh she was afraid but, she'd already begun to do that which she had feared, depend upon Dean. Depend upon his strength to keep them apart, because separate they would be safe. She would be safe, but it didn't change the fact that she already needed him, needed him to keep her anchored within herself by resisting what she could not. The finality of his last words, that plea, they had cut her, as the emotions that sparked them cut him, and she knew that they had missed something, that the window had closed. Maybe they could never have passed through into the possibility it represented anyway, but she knew that they would never know now. The searing memory of Dean's touch, which was slowly fading from her skin, was all that would remain, and some part of her wanted desperately to know, even briefly, just once, the press of his lips on hers. To stand in the world that could not be, in his arms, just for one moment.

But Dean must have been having similar thoughts in those last seconds, before the door opened and the real world outside intruded upon them once more, because he suddenly spun and looked down at her, his eyes crystalline and sharp, his regret and relief a warring torrent inside him. To fast for her to react, his hand shot out, fisting in the material of her shirt front. His arm flexed and Reggie felt herself pitch forward, her body slamming into his, as he jerked her up on her toes, almost off her feet. For an instant they stood there as his arms shifted. The left came about her waist, anchoring her against him and the large palm of his right hand slid up her spine to her neck, banding around her and tightening, crushing their bodies together. Reggie, mouth open in shock, stared blindly into his eyes as she felt the force of the impact, the hot, unforgiving hardness of him pressing against her from breast to thigh, and they were so close and tight together, she could feel every line and ridge and swell of muscle in his chest and arms as he surround her. She was overwhelmed with his size and strength and the sensation sent a new wave of lust crashing through her, and then her mind switched off, as his mouth swooped down on hers. The contact was brief, hard, almost harsh, Dean's lips grinding into hers, bruising her, and Reggie knew, even as her head swam with a sharp spike of pleasure which left her gasping and dizzy, that she would never forget the feel of him as he imprinted her mouth and body with the rough, possessive brand of his kiss. Knew that he was marking her, even as he let go. He stepped back just as quickly, dropping her back on her feet and stepping away and out the door, past Sam as he flung it open, leaving Reggie standing alone, her breath heaving, blinking owlishly in the sudden glare.

Sam was forced to jump back as Dean shoved forcefully by him on his way out of the closet. Without so much as a glance for his brother, the elder Winchester strode over to the heavy wooden desk that dominated the room, rummaged for a moment, swept up the files he'd unearthed several hours previously, before he and Reggie had been interrupted in their search, and walked out of the room.

Mouth hanging open, Sam looked back to Reggie, who was still standing, looking stunned, in the closet, framed by the green and gold of the priest's hanging vestments. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click when he got a good look at her. He didn't have to wonder what had been bothering Dean. Reggie's golden eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed, her hair in disarray and her mouth was pink and slightly swollen. Sam had to admit, if he'd ever seen a woman look more sexily mussed, he couldn't remember when. What confused him was the darkness in her eyes, and his brother's negative reaction. If Dean had done the mussing, and unless there was a third body hiding in the tiny space, Sam didn't see what other explanation there could be, shouldn't he be a little smugger, and a little less……absent? Sam looked at the door through which his brother had hastily exited and back to Reggie. Then again, no matter how prettily plumped he might have left her mouth, if Sam had put that darkness in the eyes of a woman he cared about with his kiss, he'd probably be less than thrilled too. It looked like Cami was right, this was obviously a lot more complicated than he'd thought, and he might just have screwed up, big time.

"Is there any point in me asking what happened?" he said, already knowing the answer. Still, his breath caught when Reggie looked into his eyes. He hadn't thought the darkness there could grow any deeper, but he was wrong. The shutters which snapped shut around her were visible, and simple darkness turned to midnight nothingness.

"No." She answered.

"No point at all."

That night, Dean slept on the floor, and neither Sam, nor Reggie, nor he, said a word about it.

He lay with his pillow bunched under his head, by the far side of Reggie's bed, between her and the door, and he was thankful for the cool, hard wood of the motel floor beneath him.

His bodily discomfort helped to distract his mind from the lingering heat, the tactile memory of Reggie, soft and sweet, burning in his arms. And that was what got him the most. Not the heat of her body as it pressed against him, not the lush curves or the unbearably smooth and silken skin. It had been her eyes, the dark, wide pools of them when she'd looked at him, pupils blown with passion before he'd even really touched her. The little sounds she'd made as she surrendered herself to him, instantly. She'd melted like hot honey at his first touch. Jesus, the way she'd wanted him. _Him_. No other woman had ever looked at him the way she had. No other woman he'd touched had ever known as much about him, hell, had ever really known him at all. But she did. He knew that she knew things about him, not just about his job and his life, but things that he hadn't told her, that no one else knew. And still, she'd wanted him, and God, he wanted her. Which was exactly why he was lying on the floor. He just didn't trust himself to stay away, not tonight, not so soon after learning exactly how she felt under his hands. How she tasted. How she would move with him, how she would fit him. Dean groaned silently. He'd never believed anything could torture him more exquisitely than the dreams which haunted him nightly, but he'd been wrong again. It seemed he always was when it came to Reggie. She was always somehow more than he thought, more even then he could dream. And if the dreams had been almost impossible to ignore, the reality was going to kill him, unless he stayed away, far away. But there was a tiny flaw in Dean's plan. It seemed that if he couldn't sleep with Reggie beside him, he wouldn't sleep at all. It was almost dawn, and still, he couldn't rest. His arms felt too empty.

Sam lay on his side in his own bed, contemplating the creeping lavender light of dawn as it crawled up the far wall of the room, spilling in from the window behind him. It washed over Reggie's face, leaving her looking pale and a bit wan. Or, it could be that she _was_ pale and wan, worn out by whatever pain the last two days had brought her. Her and Dean. Though he couldn't see his brother, lying on the floor on the other side of Reggie's bed, he imagined Dean's face would look much the same in the cool, pre-dawn glow. Too pale. Or perhaps it would still be caught in shadow, not yet reached by the weak light's rays. Sam shook his head. God he was worried. Really worried. Both Reggie and Dean had been strangely withdrawn ever since Bayard, and nobody would tell him what was going on! Tomorrow he was going to call Cami. If nothing else, hearing her voice soothed his nerves. And that was a whole other problem which he didn't have time to deal with right now. But the thought of her instantly brought her face to his mind, the phantom of her voice sounding in his ears. The ghost of her laughter brought a half smile to his own face. He wasn't even thinking about anything in particular, no specific memory, though he'd carefully catalogued and set aside each precious second in his mind. It was just the fact of her that had him caught up and distracted. So distracted that he almost missed it but, still caught by the bittersweet twist of longing in his own heart, he was in a unique place to appreciate the poignant moment.

Reggie was lying on her side facing Sam, but she was on the very far edge of her bed. Sleeping as close to where Dean slept as she could possibly get, though she'd started out the night at the dead centre of the mattress. It was the movement, in the stark light of the still room, that caught Sam's eye. He watched in quiet fascination as a long arm appeared behind Reggie. It looped easily up and over her waist, drawing her back, right off the side of the bed. Sam couldn't help but shoot up, expecting to hear the sharp thump of her body hitting the ground, but he didn't. And what his great height allowed him to see from his sitting position made his heart ache in his chest. He could see Dean clearly. His brother had caught Reggie's body easily between his big hands, cushioning her fall, easing her down as she slid backwards off of the bed, lowering her gently until she lay atop him, his arms cradling her carefully against his chest. She let out a breathy sigh and stretched against Dean's body like a small, tawny cat, before settling into him, seeming to sink into him, and Dean's eyes closed as his limbs visibly loosened, their bodies relaxing into one another so completely it was as though they had melded into one person. Dean lazily brushed Reggie's hair from her face and smoothed his fingers gently through the golden tresses. Smiling in her sleep, she reached up with slow, languid abandon, winding her arms about Dean's neck and nuzzling under his chin. And the look on Dean's face, when she pressed a series of tender kisses along the underside of his jaw and down the column of his throat, before finally laying her head to rest over his heart……… Sam couldn't decide which of them was more screwed. Dean, who had everything he couldn't afford to want sitting right in front of him, or he himself, who had only the distant promise of a possibility he didn't really believe in to torture him.

It was the damndest thing, thought Dean to himself as he felt the tension that had kept him wide-eyed and far to awake for the entirety of the night, ease from his body as Reggie's lips caressed him. She flooded over his senses, her scent and her shape and her touch overtaking all other stimuli, until she was all there was. And Dean breathed deeply as he felt the whirling, biting, desperation-flavoured storm of despair and fear fade. Dean immersed himself in Reggie until he was himself again. She was, ultimately, the cause of all his discomfit but, she was also the only thing that could soothe away the strain so effortlessly. It was one hell of a bind. And he hadn't the faintest idea how he was going to get out of it. As it was, in a few minutes he was going to have to get up and replace Reggie in the bed, so she wouldn't know that in the end, he really couldn't resist her. Oh he could resist the animal impulse that snarled possessively inside every time another man looked at her, whether she noticed or not. And the one that urged him to damn the consequences and take her hot and hard and deep, on every available surface. But the ache for her, the one that went all the way down, past flesh and into the bone, the need to see and hear and yes, God help him, hold her. That one he couldn't control, couldn't deny. And so he kept her, even though he knew he shouldn't.

Cursing under his breath, Dean stood in a single, fluid motion, Reggie in his arms, and deposited her back in the bed. Then, he tugged on his jeans and ran a hand though his disheveled hair and over his tired eyes. Well, if he wasn't going to get any sleep, at least he was feeling centered enough now to maybe get some work done. Leaving his jeans unbuttoned and his chest bare, Dean threw himself into the chair beside the table, and began to sort through the files he'd snagged from Father Hyde's office. He didn't say a word when Sam rose a moment later and came to sit opposite him, the only sound to break the silence the electronic whirr of Sam's laptop as it blinked into life, but there was something there that maybe had never been before. Some level of understanding. They had both wanted, they had both lost. But they were still in it together. And so papers were shuffled back and forth and communication was limited to indistinct hand gestures and quiet grunts, to head shakes and thumbs up.

Reggie awoke slowly, feeling suddenly cold. She blinked sleepily as Dean's form swam into focus before her tired eyes, which snapped shut again as she registered that he was wearing nothing but his black boxers. Still, she hadn't been quite quick enough, and the image of his body, all those acres of golden skin stretching over the heavy cords of muscle that coiled and bunched smoothly across his shoulders as he reached for his clothes, was burning behind her closed eyes. What a way to wake up. She tried not to think about the fact that he had freckles on more than just his face. Keeping her eyes squeezed tightly shut, Reggie waited until she heard the rustle and hissing glide of denim over flesh that signified he'd pulled on his clothes before opening them again, just in time to see Dean sling himself into a chair by the table. He was shirtless, and the low-riding jeans, which he'd left undone, and his bare feet, somehow made the sexily rumpled package more, as opposed to less, alluring. Reggie bit her lip and stayed perfectly still as she heard Sam move form the bed beside hers, her eyes still glued to Dean's body, moving over the hard lines of his flat stomach up the sculpted planes of his chest, where his ever-present amulet rested, to his face. His jade eyes were heavy, he wore a days worth of stubble on his jaw, and his hair was in sleep-tousled disarray. Reggie's fingers itched to push through the thick, soft strands, further messing the dark blond mass that stuck up in hap-hazard, off-centre spikes.

A grin twitched the corner of her lips as she watched Sam take up a place across from Dean, and the brothers fell into a routine that spoke of long practice. Speaking in a code of hand-gestures and grunts, each naturally taking up that work for which he was best suited, papers and files exchanging hands with automated ease, requiring barely a glance between them. The wore identical furrows of concentration on their brows.

Reggie's wandering attention was suddenly caught and riveted when Dean began to play idly with his pen, walking it back and forth over his fingers, twirling it, chewing on it. His hands. She was barely able to suppress the quiver that ran through her body as she stared at them. She'd never again be able to look at those big, rugged, wide-palmed hands with their long, blunt fingers, without feeling them on her body. Her breath came a little faster and she was amazed at how incredibly, _painfully_ acute her tactile memory of those hands actually was. She could still feel them on her skin, catalogue every callus and scar by sense memory alone. There was the gentle scrape of the roughened tip of his index finger over her sensitive throat. _His trigger finger_, she thought involuntarily. Then there were the thick, hard calluses that covered the knuckles he'd traced so delicately over her cheek, and the ones that put ridges along the insides of his fingers, where his favoured, small, silver throwing daggers sat. Or the hardened crest of skin at the base of each digit, which matched a patch on the heel of his palm, the places where the skin rubbed against the grip of his bowie knife. And then there were the scars. The raised lines of pale flesh that marred the supple, sun-bronzed skin. Dozens of them, some short and fine, nicks and scratches, others long, at least one deeply carved, puckered crescent on the back of his left hand, curving down and away from his baby finger, as though it might have been used to block the blow of a blade. And the thought of that, of steel slicing into Dean's naked flesh, made her flinch and suddenly she wanted to stop, didn't want to go on assessing and categorizing the evidence of Dean's vocation, the story of his life as a warrior, because above all, that was what his hands said about him. They were hard and rough and marked, soldier's hands. Hands that fought, and hands that saved.

Reggie swallowed and couldn't help but finish. There was the disturbingly smooth circle of skin around the second finger from the end of his right hand, where he'd been burned. Sam had once told her it had happened when Dean was electrocuted while wearing the heavy silver ring he never went without. The pale, melted band of flesh peaked out from beneath that same ring now. And last but not least, there was long, ragged slash which made its way down the inside of his right wrist beneath the black leather bands he wore. Not the mark of a knife but of a claw, a final reminder that not everything Dean hunted was human. But still, what cut Reggie's heart the most, what stole her breath and made her tremble, was the memory of his gentleness. The aching contrast between the strength in those hands, and the harsh reality they told about their owner, that this was a man far to familiar with violence, who could harm and who could kill, and the way they had touched her with such care, had brought her such pleasure. Digging her own fingers into the bedding to keep from crying out at the vicious unfairness of it all, that those two warring qualities should be housed within the same man, that they should be so inextricably linked, Reggie did the only thing she could, she lay silently in the bed, watching the Winchesters do what they did best, keeping and unnoticed vigil over the brothers through the red and orange brilliance of sunrise.


	67. Chapter 67

AN: Hey all. Sorry, I'm afraid I partied a little to hearty during the long weekend and came down with a Summer cold. Why is it they;re always so much wose than a winter cold? Anyway, that's why I didn't get this up sooner. That and the fact that there's a lot of complicated info I had to get in about the new hunt. Enjoy!

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"Hell!", snarled Dean, running his hand through his hair and throwing an irritated look at Sam as he climbed into the car.

"More nothing. And that's the last place on the list."

Sliding into the back seat of the Impala, Reggie frowned as she listened to Sam rattle off a series of possible theories about what could have taken the three, or rather four, as the records he had accessed from the local police database had shown that there was a additional victim from about three months ago who fit the MO of whatever they were hunting. The truth was, Dean was right, they had a whole lot of nothing. Most of the crime scenes were too old to be of much use by this point anyway, so all the three really had to go on were the police reports, and as Dean scathingly pointed out, they were as like to have deliberately left out the kind of unusual or inexplicable, confusing details that the Winchesters would have recognized as crucial clues. Add that to the fact that they had all been left uncomfortable and edgy by the intimate moments they had unknowingly shared in the pale light of dawn, and you had a car full of unhappy campers.

In the front seat, Dean was shaking his head vehemently at Sam.

"No. I'm telling you, I don't think it's a spirit. If it is, there should be……._something, _anything! A sighting, other signs, ya know, the standard electrical shortages etc., and there should be some connection between the victims. As far as we can tell, there're aren't any. I mean, other then that they're all women. They're different ages, come from different backgrounds. They were killed in different places, at different times, under varying circumstances. There's just nothing to suggest the kind of pattern that says spook to me Sammy."

Obviously as irritated as Dean, Sam glared at his brother and snapped,

"So what, your super-hunter sixth-sense tingling? Tellin' you this isn't a ghost, and so we're just supposed to go with that!"

Dean looked at Sam wearily.

"C'mon Sammy" he said quietly,

"Your gut's sayin' it the same as mine. You just don't wanna admit it. This isn't a spirit, and the killings, they just don't fit with any kind of supernatural creature that we can come up with right now. Face it Collage Boy, we're stumped."

Sam's head drooped in defeat,

"Yeah" he agreed softly,

"You're right. We've got nothin'."

Dean nodded.

"We could ask for help" Sam suggested.

Dean shrugged,

"From who? Bobby?" He shook his head,

"I'm sure he'd be willing to help, but what are we gonna tell him? We've got a bunch of clean crime scenes, an invisible killer that leaves behind one helluva lot of blood but nothing else, and picks victims with no discernable connections to one another? Nah. I don't think even he's gonna be able to make much out of this mess Sam. But you go ahead and call him. Meanwhile, I say we broaden the search criteria. Can you get me the records for every crime committed and reported for this county in the last six months?"

Sam gaped at him.

"You're gonna sift through that and what? Just hope a pattern pops out at you?"

Dean shrugged again.

"For now, that's the best I got."

"I'll help" offered Reggie softly from the backseat. Both of the Winchesters looked round as if surprised to see her sitting there. Reggie heaved a sigh. It was always like this. When it came to hunting, the brothers all but forgot her existence, but the really frustrating thing was that they were right. Why should they remember her, she didn't have anything to offer. The mere sight of the large, crimson stain on the worn cement of the sidewalk where Angela Hewitt had been attacked while she was walking home, had nearly been enough to make her lose her breakfast. And who was she kidding, even if she did go over the records with Dean, chances were, she wouldn't be able to pick out the pertinent details anyway. Feeling gloomy and thoroughly useless, Reggie stayed silent through the drive back to the motel. Once they had arrived, she busied herself sorting the pages and pages of information that spewed from Sam's portable printer, stacking them into neat piles organized by date, and trying hard not to read the gruesome tittles borne by many of the local police reports. It was a long night.

The next morning, Reggie awoke to find herself curled up in the middle of the bed she'd been meant to share with Dean. Somewhere, the shower was running. She was still dressed and she didn't remember climbing into the bed herself. Which meant one of the Winchesters had put her there. She noticed that her neatly arranged categories of police reports were strewn higgledy-piggledy across the table, chair, floor and opposite bed. By the looks of their crumpled disarray, she'd hazard that Sam had slept on some of them. What the general mess told her was that the Winchesters had continued to work long after she'd fallen asleep. Hating herself, she couldn't help but wonder where Dean had slept. If he'd taken the place beside her there was no evidence of it, nor was there a pillow or blanket on the floor to indicate that he's spent this night like the last. Scrubbing her hands over her tired face and grimacing as she ran her tongue over un-brushed teeth, Reggie wished she didn't give a damn about where Dean had slept, but she did. What she didn't know was whether she wanted the answer to that question to be on the floor, or by her side.

Dean chose that moment to make his grand entrance, clattering noisily through the doorway, shouldering it open and striding through, his keys characteristically clamped in his teeth, his hands full of coffee and brown paper bags. Reggie noted that despite his precarious load and seeming lack of concern, he still managed to step neatly over the salt line laid out around the doorway without nudging so much as a grain out of place. She shook her head and went to take the bags from him. Getting a good look at his face, she felt she had the answer to her earlier question. Dean's eyes were tired and his face was drawn, there were dark shadows under the usually bright green orbs, and the skin beneath his morning stubble was pale. If she'd had to guess, Reggie would have said that Dean hadn't slept at all. Immediately she felt irritation and concern spurt through her, and despised herself for both, but the man just didn't take care of himself properly!

_Not your business._ She reminded herself firmly. Unfortunately, herself didn't seem to be listening. Before she knew it, Reggie was sweeping the parcels of food and coffee cups from Dean's arms and shoving him into the nearby chair. Standing before him, arms akimbo, she heard herself demand,

"Did you get any sleep last night?!"

Looking a bit surprised at her outburst, Dean rearranged himself in the chair and shrugged.

"Some."

"Really" muttered Reggie skeptically,

"And how much exactly might, 'some' be?"

Dean frowned at her.

"What's with you?" He growled.

"I'm fine! I might have gotten a little carried away with work is all."

Reggie threw out her arms in exasperation because she'd caught the little whiff of falsehood in his words, and could guess well enough what exactly had kept him from the bed. And she was ashamed at herself for being secretly pleased that she could effect him so strongly.

"You won't be of much use to anybody if you're too tired to even see straight." She pointed out.

He looked away rather than responding.

"I'll sleep with Sam tomorrow night" she said softly.

Dean wanted to protest, but Reggie was right. He had to get some rest, and while he knew that he wasn't much more likely to get any sleep in the bed than he was on the floor, because his problem wasn't her presence but rather her absence, he figured at this point, he had to give it a shot. Nodding his assent mutely, they settled in opposite corners of the room to wait for Sam to finish in the bathroom.

Later that day, the three stopped for gas just outside of Thermopolis. They were heading out into the park to check the sight of the fourth, newly discovered victim. Neither Dean nor Sam seemed to hold out much hope that getting a look at this, the oldest of the crime scenes, would be of much help but, they didn't have much else to go on. After hitting the park, the boys were planning to talk to the people who'd found the bodies.

While they sat in the car waiting for Dean to finish, Sam was going over the list of people they were planning to question.

"Hey" he said, looking up,

"Warren Yonbeck. Isn't that the kid you met at the memorial service?"

"What?" replied Reggie,

"You mean my first new friend at Thermopolis High?"

Sam winced at the sarcastic censure in her voice but nodded.

"Yeah."

Reggie sighed.

"Yes. That was his name, why?"

Sam shrugged,

"Well, it says here, in Father Hyde's notes about Mrs. Hewitt, that he was planning to talk to Warren because he was the one who found Angela's body, and the police report confirms it. He lives near her and they were both in the school band."

Sam gave a sympathetic wince as he recalled Warren's twitchy awkwardness.

"Poor kid plays Tuba."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I bet that does wonders for his social life. I mean, I know chicks dig musicians but really, the Tuba! That's just…sad" he decided with a shake of his head.

"Anyway" continued Sam, ignoring his brother.

"I guess that he stayed behind to help the band leader put away the music stands and chairs and stuff, and so he was only maybe half an hour behind her, and well, he didn't find her so much as a giant pool of blood, but when the police came, their lab was able to identify the blood as Angela's."

Reggie blanched at the thought of the sight that must have greeted Warren's innocent blue eyes.

"That's horrible" she murmured.

Sam nodded, and then gave an uncomfortable little squirm before turning in his seat to look at her directly.

"Look Reggie. I know you're not going to like this much, but hear me out okay?" He waited for her to nod before continuing.

"Well, Dean and I were thinking that, since you already met the kid, and since he thinks of you as a peer and everything, your know, thinks that you're going to be going to the same school and everything….We were thinking that maybe it would be best if you talk to him."

"Wha… what? No!" Reggie shook her head violently.

"Sam!" she sounded aghast, but before she could finish, Dean was sliding back into the car.

Hearing her loud exclamations, he grinned as he listened to her berate his brother.

"That's manipulative and cruel, and, and awful. To pretend to be a friend to a boy like that, get him to confide in you and then just….disappear" she snapped her fingers for emphasis.

"Now Reggie" began Sam in a reasonable tone of voice, glancing at Dean for help, and then glaring when his brother merely picked up a sheaf of papers he'd extracted from the many police reports and began to go over them again, completely ignoring Sam and giving him an 'I told you she was going to be difficult' look.

Humming quietly to himself, Dean sorted through the handful of reports he'd picked out. Some had seemed strange, others had simply spoken to his gut. None of them appeared to be overtly tied into the case they were currently working, but something was nagging at the back of his mind as he scanned the bulletins for what must have been the umpteenth time. Of course, it might have been easier to pick out a pattern if Reggie had chosen to arrange the damn things by type of crime rather than by date…….and then it hit him.

Reggie and Sam were still arguing about whether or not she should talk to Warren, Reggie becoming positively livid when Sam pointed out that sometimes one had to think of the greater good, and neither paid any attention to Dean as he leaned forward and pushed Sam aside so he could fish for something in the glove box. Emerging with a small, leather bound book in his hand, Dean scribbled several numerical some things on the corner of one of the sheets of paper, and then began flipping through the book, concentrating intently and glancing between the papers, which he periodically shuffled, and scratching down notations in the book. After several moments, he sat back and stared at the page before him in a sort of horrified awe.

"Holy.Motherfucking.Hell!Shit!goddamnitbuggering_sonofabitch!_" Dean vicious stream of expletives, which were delivered in a harsh, shocked tone that started off slow and gained momentum and conviction, as well as volume, as he went, cut neatly across Reggie and Sam's ongoing argument, effectively silencing both.

"Oh, _what_!?" demanded Sam, clearly annoyed by his brother's dramatic outburst.

Silently, Dean passed him the little book. Sam stared at it for a moment, cocking his head this way and that as he deciphered the information written there. Then, he froze and sucked in his breath.

"Ohshit!OhGod!Bad.Bloodyhellgoddamn_fuck_!" He imitated his brother's maledict outburst, the curses spilling from his lips in a swift, alarmingly emphatic torrent.

Dean cast him a blasé look,

"That's what I said" he pointed out.

"Oh for God's sake!" Reggie exploded from the back seat.

"Will one of you two please tell me what the hell is going on!"

Dean looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyes were cold and grave.

"We've got a Waga" he said.

"Excuse me?!"

"A Bau Waga" Dean repeated in a slow, deliberate voice.

Wordlessly, Sam passed her the little black book. Glancing down at it, Reggie saw that it was the Impala's service record. Trust Dean to be meticulous in his record-keeping when it came to the damn car, but could he put the lid back on any damn jar he used from her kitchen? Oh no. That seemed entirely beyond his capacity. Flipping the pages with a little more force than necessary in her irritation, Reggie came to the marked page. It held twelve small monthly calendars for the current year and 'Dec. 18 aa' was marked in the top right corner. There were various notations in the months between January and April, the sort of thing one might expect. Oil changes, records of mileage etc. Amid these Dean had hastily marked the dates of the four disappearances and a number of other days as well, which were also labeled 'aa'.

"I don't understand" said Reggie frowning.

"What's aa?"

"Animal attack" answered Dean succinctly.

"Animal attack?" repeated Reggie.

"Yeah" said Dean softly.

"When I was looking through the records, I noticed that there had been several animal attacks in the area during the last couple of months. At first, like the local authorities, I didn't think that much of it. What, with the park being right in Thermopolis' back yard, mix in a couple of stupid teenagers or some dumb tourists, and the bears and wolves have got themselves a party. Still, something just seemed sort of off. It's too bad, but not that unexpected. Still, that's a lot of attacks, even for such a wild area, five in just over three months. According to these reports, the Park Rangers aren't even convinced that it was a local animal, or the same one. The first attack was in December of last year, the police found what looked like wolf tracks in the snow. But just one set. It's unusual for a wolf to hunt alone, so they felt it was likely a rouge, not part of one of the park's packs. Then, the next body was so badly mauled, they figure it was more likely a bear than a wolf. Anyway, I kept these with me on a hunch and then it hit me, look at the dates. The December attack, it occurred on the night of the full moon." His tone was ominous.

Reggie wrinkled her brow.

"The full moon….." her eyes popped wide open as realization dawned.

"But….But" she glanced frantically down at the calendars.

"It couldn't possibly be a Werewolf! I mean, you've got the last animal attack, the one in February, down as being on the 24th, that's more than a week _after_ the full moon. And the first victim who disappeared, Mara Nelson, she went missing on March 16th, and that's three days _before_ the full moon."

Sam was nodding his head as she talked.

"That's all true" he said grimly,

"But he didn't say a werewolf, he said, Bau Waga."

There was a long silence. Reggie could feel the shocked tension roiling through the Winchesters, whatever the hell a Bau Waga was, it was bad, very bad.

"You're actually going to make me ask aren't you?" Reggie demanded at last, if only to break the foreboding silence that had gripped the car.

"Hmmmm?" said Dean, he and Sam were obviously lost in thought, their foreheads creased in worry and concentration. Reggie could feel the slightly frantic flutter of their energy, as their agile, hunter's brains struggled to absorb and solve what was clearly a very serious and unexpected problem.

"What's a Bau Waga?" Reggie asked, mildly exasperated.

"It's a werewolf" said Sam.

Reggie threw up her hands,

"You just told me it _wasn't_ a werewolf!" she cried.

"S'not" said Dean, speaking for the first time in several minutes, his voice still that same, solemn timbre.

"Well, not like you'd normally think of one" he amended with a shoulder jerk.

"Waga's are….." began Sam,

"Worse" finished Dean.

Sam compressed his lips into a tight, bloodless line, but didn't refute Dean's bleak statement.

"Look, you know about standard werewolf lore right? Lycanthropy and stuff?" he questioned.

Reggie nodded. Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes.

"Well, lycanthropic werewolves are one of two kinds of werewolves. They're your common, garden variety wer. They're bitten and infected by another werewolf with enzymes that act like a virus. These cause the person to transform into a lupine creature on the night of the full moon. The werewolf that results is a creature of base, animal instinct. It's driven by an uncontrollable and vicious bloodlust. It has no human impulse of pity, or remorse, or fear, and it's larger and more powerful than its natural counterparts. They're one of the hardest and most dangerous creatures to kill because any hunter that goes after one risks infection, and because of the wer's unfailing, almost demonic ferocity. And because, even though they're utterly and wholly creatures of mindless violence when transformed, as human's, they have no memory of what they've done, they black out. When they're transformed, they can't stop themselves" he finished quietly, his voice almost a whisper as he spoke of the inescapable harrowing cycle that snared those people who endured the lycanthrope's curse.

"So, so, you're really, killing people" whispered Reggie, horrified. Dean's jaw flexed.

"Yes" said Sam, his voice heavy.

"But there isn't any other way. There's no cure for lycanthropy, and no sure way to contain an infected wer. If they aren't eliminated, other people die, or worse, are turned."

"But that's impossible" protested Reggie.

"If all that were true, shouldn't lycanthropy be, pandemic, or something? I mean, shouldn't there be a lot more of them, wouldn't people know about them?"

"No" Sam shook his head.

"For one, the wer isn't interested in infecting other people for the most part. It wants to kill. It's only if a victim somehow escapes that they're turned. The only people a wer might intentionally turn, are its family. Wolves are, after all, pack animals."

"But still" said Reggie, unconvinced,

"Surely something as….as terrible as the werewolve's killing sprees couldn't be kept under wraps. I mean, one death a month, in the same places, consistently, over the wer's lifetime. Surely someone would pick up on that?"

Dean's contemptuous snort said he didn't have even that much confidence in the proper authorities.

Sam shook his head again.

"You're still thinking of classic, gothic, Victorian and Enlightenment werewolf lore. In reality, one of two things happens. One, the er dies. wThe transformation is really wearing on the body. Humans are so fragile physically, most wer's don't live for more than six months after being infected, lots don't even make it that long, they're bodies just give out."

"And the other?" said Reggie reluctantly, feeling Sam's sorrow.

His eyes were dark as he looked at her, and Dean's hands were white knuckled on the wheel. Obviously the harsh reality of the appalling, very human tragedy behind lycanthrope's life, and necessary death, to be delivered at thier hands, was a difficult truth for both Winchesters.

"Well. Sometimes, the infected person sort of, starts to put things together and, once they realize what's happening, what they've done and will continue to do…..if they're a good person, they usually" he swallowed,

"End it" he finished softly, his voice vibrating with repressed empathy for those people who died, alone, driven to take their own lives by fear of an inescapable monster within.

Reggie wanted to snap out a denial, to ripe away the connection Sam felt to these creatures. To tell him he would never, _could never_, find that kind of pure, driven darkness and rage within his gentle spirit. But she knew it was useless. Dean's words to her, it seemed so long ago, even though it was really only a few weeks, "Knowing something isn't the same thing as feeling it."_ Or believing it, _Reggie added silently.

In the front seat, Dean's voice broke the sudden silence, and the fury she felt spiraling, hot and tight in his belly, snaking up around his heart, surprised her, but her confusion quickly faded, as he began to explain the origins of the Bau Waga.

"The thing is" said Dean, anger crackling in his deep voice,

"Lycanthrope's weren't the first werewolves. There are lots of theories about where they originate from, and lots more about how the species traveled from one place to another. Werewolves, or dogmen, show up in dozen's of cultures. In Celtic legend, in Turkey, Asia Minor, Greece and Lativa, the transformationis often a punishment, then there's the fabled berserker warriors of the Slavs and the Scandinavians, who were said to actually become wolves, or sometimes bears, when the battle frenzy came upon them, and in Eastern Europe and Russia, there were incantations, spells, cursed or magical objects, which were said to bring about the transformation. The difference between these wer's and lycanthropes, especially the last three, is that they _desired and controlled_, to varying extents, their transformations. One of the most ancient mentions of men who were blessed, or cursed, with the ability to transform into dog-like creatures, are the servants of Bau. Who is…." He paused and looked over the seat at Reggie.

"An ancient, Sumerian goddess. Her cult is very, very old and may have had sects in ancient Greece, which is where the word Lycanthropy originates. She was said to have the head of a dog, and she was a nasty bit of business." Reggie provided without hesitation.

He nodded.

"So, we call the second type of wer, those who desire their power and are able to exploit it, those who are truly evil, Bau Wagas. The Wolves of Bau."

"So, what are you saying? The Waga isn't a lycanthrope?"

Dean shrugged,

"He or she might have been originally, judging by the fact that the first few attacks took place on the full moon, I'd say they probably were, though, they could have originally been turned by one of the other methods, doesn't really make a diferenece. What makes them so godamned dangerous, is that as a Waga comes to realize what's happening to them, rather than being horrified by what they do in their animal form, the Waga embraces it, revels in it, and so, gains the ability to control his transformations. And then…"

Reggie could see Dean's eyes blaze in the rearview mirror,

"They kill as many people as they can, as fast as they can. Racing the clock, attempting to do the maximum amount of damage during their short lives."

Reggie felt her stomach roll. Now she understood his rage, and Sam's sorrow. The Waga made such a cruel mockery of the more noble and stoic souls who chose to take their own lives, rather than go on hurting others. While the Waga, by surrendering to the darkness within, was able to gain the one thing which could save the other lycanthropes, control. It was one of the most twisted and awful cruelties of fate Reggie had ever heard. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, as she thought of all the people who had been forced to face their worst nightmare, within themselves, and she wanted to weep for their sacrifice. Biting her lip until she got herself under control, Reggie finally asked,

"So that's why the disappearances don't take place on the full moon?" Frowning, she looked at the map again, and before either Sam or Dean could answer her earlier question, she asked another.

"But some of them do. Mara Nelson didn't, but three days later, Laura Gallo did. And right before Angela, who vanished during the April full moon, Dina Perry went missing almost two weeks prior to that." She looked back at the earliest animal attacks.

"And even the attacks, they start out on the full moons, in December and January, but then in February, there's an attack on the full moon, and then another just a few weeks later at the beginning of March, and then, Mara and Laura."

She looked up at Dean and Sam.

"How does all that fit in?"

Sam sighed.

"Well, the first two attacks were probably when the Waga was first turned, before he figured out what was going on. And then, well, then the double attack in February tells us that he'd started to learn to control his power, to transform on nights when the moon wasn't full, though, he's at his most powerful when it is. After that, he progressed to….Mara."

"But why did Mara disappear?" asked Reggie.

Sam swallowed hard,

"Well, the Waga is smart, it's aware. It knows that if people keep getting mauled, eventually, there'll be a proper investigation. It doesn't want that, so, it perpetrates the crime as an animal, but in a manner in which a regular animal never would."

"That's why the crime scenes appear clean" interrupted Dean.

"The police aren't looking for animal sign and, unlike the animal attacks, the disappearances took place in the city, which means the Waga is getting bolder."

Reggie was nodding, trying to take all that in,

"But what is it doing with the bodies?" she insisted.

Sam and Dean exchanged at look which Reggie read all too easily as 'We really shouldn't tell her'.

"Tell me!" She commanded.

"They're eating them" said Sam softly.

"That's why there's so much blood, but no bodies."

Reggie fought her automatic gag reflex, but then, her head snapped up.

"_They_!?" she squawked.

In the front seat Dean shook his head. Damn but she was quick, even when she was sitting in the backseat of his car turning increasingly pale with every gruesome and frightening detail of supernatural reality he and Sam threw at her.

"Yeah" he confirmed.

"They. The Waga, because he's human, is twice as likely to want to turn members of his family. But, he wants to remain the Alpha in his pack, to have control of them. So he turns them, and then manipulates them, both while they're transformed, and when they're in human form. I think that's what the animal attack in February is. It's his first pack mate's trial run. Then, the Waga kills again in early March, before devouring Mara on the 16th. He may have tried to use the shock of that experience to help his pack mate learn to transform without the full moon. You know, drug him along, had him watch, whatever."

Reggie was starting look a little green around the edges, but her eyes were steady. Hot and bright when she snarled,

"The Bastard!"

Dean nodded.

"Yeah. Then, on the full moon of March, Laura. I think that was a dual job. Then Dina and Angela as well. Dina as a warm up, and Angela on the full moon."

Reggie's eyes had turned as hard a golden agate. She thought of Mrs. Hewitt, the desolate look on her face when she thought of facing a world without her daughter. The anguish of Angela's father's guilt, he would never forgive himself for not protecting her. The loss in the little boys tears, a thousand memories he would never have, of a sister he had barely known. She thought of the seven other families who had endured similar losses.

"So, how do we kill the sonofabitch?!" she demanded.

In the front seat, Sam couldn't help but return his brother's razor sharp grin with a grim twist of his own lips, as Dean approved of Reggie's words.

"That's our girl." He said with a faint hint of pride that found a grudging echo in Sam's dark blue eyes.

Further Note:

I just want to say, for the record, that I had this storyline worked out in my head way before Heart ever aired, and that though I was originally all upset that they wound up doing Wer's on the show before I was anywhere near to writing this part, in the end I don't mind so much because Wer's are some of my favourite supernatual creatures, and I didn't love the way the show dealt with them on some levels, so, I'm glad to be taking my own crack at it. All the Wer lore mentioned, about the origins and stuff, is true, though I made up the term Bau Waga. The six month stuff and that is just one take I once read or heard somewhere that I liked.


	68. Chapter 68

AN: Lord, it's been awhile. Hello all. I'm afraid my stubborn little cold turned out to be a full blown case of Strep Thraot, so I've been MIA for a bit while I recovered. I promise to respond to all of your reviews asap, but figured you'd rather I get the next chapter out first. Enjoy!

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The drive into the state park should have been enjoyable. Reggie still loved the smoky purple haze that embellished the horizon. Loved knowing that those indistinct shapes with soft edges were really towers of stone, all sharp cooked peaks and cold, icy zeniths that stabbed into the sky. The contrast between perspective and reality intrigued her. She still loved the patchwork of brambles and thorns that spilled out of the valleys, and the lush layers of green on green. The shadowy lines and hosts of the fir trees that thrust skywards out of the paler, rolling turf of the hills toward the blue sky. She loved the river with its ever-changing character and colour. But it was different now. Now she saw a new shadow that was embedded in the land as much as cast upon it. It was a stain. She knew that it was only knowledge of a stalking evil that she had, that there was no physical evidence of it in the landscape before her, and yet, when she looked at Sam and Dean's set expressions and the lines of strain around their mouths, she knew that they saw it too.

Mara Nelson had been the first of the Waga's victims to disappear. Looking around the crime scene, a small clearing amidst the forest which surrounded the tourist centre located by the Big Spring, where they'd gotten directions from a skeptical park ranger, Dean frowned. The land provided even fewer clues than the rough, uneven sidewalk where Angela had died. The forest floor had swallowed any evidence. There was no matching red stain here, and Reggie couldn't help but think that it was as though the land had drunk the blood, leaving not trace. Rain had long since washed away any hope of finding tracks or sign, even when you knew what to look for. Dean's muffled curses as he knelt on carpet of pine needles and traced his fingers over the dark, damp loam beneath, said as much.

Neither brother needed to tell Reggie they had hit another dead end. They returned to the car, the silence snapping with Dean's frustration and thick with Sam's somber worry.

Feeling uneasy with so much silence, it somehow seemed to fill the restless shadows with a power they shouldn't have, Reggie finally said,

"So, I guess that leaves us with talking to the witnesses?"

Sam's mouth twitched in a poor imitation of a smile.

"Yeah. Except, we can't exactly just run off and invent some story like we normally would. Convince everybody we're Federal Wildlife Service or State Police."

"Why not?" asked Reggie puzzled.

Sam sighed,

"Because. We're likely going to have to stay here for awhile. We have to figure out who the Waga is, and that could take time. Remember, it's not stupid or mindless, like your average werewolf. It's going to be covering its tracks, and once we start poking around, in a town like this, it won't be long before people start to talk. Which means it won't be long before the Waga realizes that we're onto it."

"Okay" said Reggie slowly, trying to work out the ramifications of that in her head.

"So you're saying that instead of the flashier, strut around unlawfully impersonating important professionals or authority figures, grab as much info as fast as you can, solve the problem quick and dirty and get the hell outa dodge before anyone catches on routine, you need to go for a subtler approach." This last was said with skepticism as she eyed Dean.

"Hey" he piped up from the front seat sounding slightly offended.

"One, I _do not_ strut and two, I'm perfectly capable of being subtle."

Reggie just rolled her eyes.

Sam ignored them and answered Reggie's question.

"Exactly. We need to make our inquiries discreetly, which is best done by integrating ourselves into the community, which means legitimate, or at least certifiable, cover stories. We can't screw this up, we need to be able to hang around here for at least a week and a half. That's the next full moon. Hopefully we'll have figured it out by then but, if not, we can count on a confrontation that night, the Wer won't be able to resist a hunt."

"Right" said Reggie carefully, not liking what she was feeling from Sam. It was the sort of squirmy reluctance that never boded well.

"And" she prompted, waiting for the bad news.

"Well" said Sam, clearing his throat,

"Here's the thing. You know how we were talking about there being no connections between the victims?"

Reggie nodded.

"Yeah" Sam blew out a breath.

"That's not exactly true. You know Warren Yonbeck? Well, this report on Mara mentions that he was the last person to see her before she died."

Reggie gapped at him.

"You think _Warren_ is the Waga!?" she demanded incredulously.

Sam winced at her tone,

"Not necessarily" he began, but was cut off by Dean.

Pulling the Impala over to the side of the road, he turned and fixed Reggie with a firm stare.

"Doesn't really matter whether we think he's the Waga, or one of his pack, or if he's completely innocent and is just an unfortunate bystander. The point is, no matter which of those scenarios turns out to be true, we need to talk to him. He's the only link between any of the victims which currently makes him suspect number one" He overrode Reggie's attempt at protestation,

"And what's more, if he isn't, he's still one of the few people who might be able to shed some light on this mess. And, he's the most easily and immediately accessible."

"How do you figure?" Reggie demanded.

"We've got you" Dean said bluntly.

"And" Sam interjected while Reggie was still shocked into silence,

"We also already have the perfect, _subtle_, point of contact for you and him."

"We do?" said Reggie, still confused.

"Mhmm." Said Sam.

"Remember how I told Mrs. Yonbeck that you were my younger sister and you'd be attending school with Warren?"

"Oh no! NO! Absolutely not! Do you hear me" she swiveled her head so that her blistering gaze took in both brothers,

"_NO!_"

"It's the only way Reggie" said Sam in a voice that was forty percent wheedle and sixty percent begging.

"Even if we didn't need to get someone into Warren's confidences, if we're going to stay here, and that we _have to_ do, we have to stick to the story I've already told" he pointed out, trying the reasonable approach on for size.

"I'm twenty-three for crying out loud, and you think that these people are just going to _believe_, that I'm in high school!" Reggie snapped.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

"Yes" they answered simultaneously.

Reggie sputtered incoherently at that. She knew she could look young for her age, but this was ridiculous!

"Listen" said Sam hastily, seeing that Reggie was working herself up to screaming,

"You'd be amazed. The truth is, people usually believe what you tell them. Believe me" he jerked a thumb at Dean,

"We should know. You wouldn't believe what some people will swallow when it comes to explaining the inexplicable, or how well they respond to brazen confidence when the doubts do creep in. You can do it, I promise" he gave her another pleading look.

Reggie paused. She'd been fully prepared to repeat her firm denials in a variety of volumes, and languages if necessary, until the Winchesters got the point, but then, she'd remembered something. As sure as she was that the sweet, awkward, lonely boy couldn't bear that kind of evil within, there had been that tiny, unidentifiable niggle of an out of context feeling when she'd met Warren at Angela's funeral. Even now, she couldn't be sure if she'd properly identified it, or if it was merely the power of suggestion, planted in her head by Sam and Dean's suspicions, but could it have been, guilt?

Reggie honestly didn't know, but the more important question was, could she take the chance of being wrong? What about all of those bereaved families? What about the Waga's next victim? She met Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror, and knew that the reason he'd kept out the argument, was that he'd known all along what she was now realizing. Like the Winchesters, Reggie had no choice. She had to do what she could, everything she could, to prevent the Waga from hurting anyone else, and if that meant worming her way into the confidences of Warren Yonbeck….Well, there wasn't anything to be done for it.

"Damn!" she hissed. At the very least, she was keeping her own suspicions, and the mystery niggle, to herself for now. She would look at it as an opportunity to clear Warren's name, rather than establish his guilt.

"Oh good." Sam's relief was evident in his voice when he correctly took her sibilant oath of irritation as acceptance.

"I'll start putting together the rest of the cover tonight. We can manufacture the necessary supporting documentation over the weekend and"

"By Monday, you'll be ready to hit the books!" Dean's grin was gratingly cheerful.

"I think I could learn to hate you" Reggie told him spitefully. Dean just grinned wider.

The rest of the afternoon did little to improve Reggie's sour mood. It didn't seem to make a difference how many times she told herself that it didn't matter what Dean said or did when he was gathering information, it still rankled that two days ago he'd been kissing her, and now he was back to flirting with anything that had breasts. That the warm, slow smile he bestowed upon the clerk at the local sheriff's office was just an act, she reminded herself futilely. The way he caught and held the pretty female deputy's deep brown eyes was merely a matter of professional efficiency. After all, when faced with Dean's killer grin and fraternal concern for his "little sister" who was around the age of the alleged "kidnapping" victims, the woman would have told him anything he wanted.

As it turned out, Sam's unintentional cover story was proving an effective tool, even if they hadn't ironed out the specifics yet. The bare bones were, Reggie, Sam and Dean were three siblings who had moved to the small town so Dean could find work, after the tragic death of their parents. And Dean was already milking the sympathy angle. His worried older brother shtick, which was all liquid emerald eyes and gruff concern, was a home run with every female employee of the county they needed to swindle that day. After all, "he'd been told this was a nice town. A small, safe, friendly community where he could shelter his younger siblings and his little sister could finish her high school education in peace. I need to know about these kidnappings, in case she's in any danger". Reggie had almost choked on that one, but had managed to look small, forlorn, and hopefully, about seventeen, when the deputy had turned sharp eyes on her.

All in all, it had been exhausting, and Reggie was relishing the thought of a hot shower and even her less than pristine motel bed seemed appealing. Dozing lightly as the Impala cruised through the gathering dusk toward the Silver Springs Motel, she almost thought she'd imagined the deep, echoing howl that pierced the dry summer air, stabbing into the car's interior though the open windows. She knew the mournful cry hadn't been the fleeting edge of some unrealized nightmare when Dean reacted by immediately spinning the wheel and guiding the big black car to crouch on the gravel shoulder of the country road. He and Sam were both out of the vehicle before Reggie could muster the courage to ask if the sound had been what she thought it was. Feared it was. Not that she needed any more confirmation that the abruptly taut and thrumming pulse of the Winchesters spiking awareness, which hovered somewhere between excitement and dread. It was, she knew, the same humming anticipation that always accompanied the warm, familiar slide of adrenaline as it was released into their veins. The hard, resolute sense of purpose that corralled and focused senses which threatened to stumble, overwrought with the sudden need to seehearthinkmeasureplando, all at once. But none of the nerves, nor the fact that both men were balanced on the frayed edge between terror and elation, escaped the iron fist of their control. Their training.

Instead, they strode, calm and purposeful, into the field that bordered the road. Blue and green eyes sharpened on the shadowed edge of distant trees, knowing ears filtered a thousand evening sounds, listening for the voice of the enemy. Trying hard to swallow her own misgivings, her eyes darting between the Winchesters and the distant woods, Reggie followed Sam and Dean out of the car. Standing on the gravel shoulder, the crunch of the stone seeming abominably loud to her ears in the face of the brothers' watchful silence, she strained her ears to hear their conversation. Their voices, though deep and low, were pitched not to carry. Both Dean and Sam stood in the field, each knee deep in the dry, kaki-coloured grass of the meadow. Sam, who was a little to her right and about ten feet in front of her, spoke first.

"You think…..?"

Dean's answer carried back to his brother from where he stood, several paces further into the grass, his eyes still pinned to the trees.

"Yeah. Ranger maybe. Or anyone really. Like you said earlier, it's a small town. We knew it'd catch on pretty quick."

"You mean you think the Waga already knows why we're here?!" Reggie hissed from behind them, her shock palpable in her strained voice.

As one Dean and Sam spun towards her and shouted in tandem,

"Get back in the car!"

Taken aback but automatically responding to the command with distain, Reggie crossed her arms.

Immediately, Sam took a step towards her and extended a placating hand.

"It's just, it's not safe…." He explained in an apologetic tone that pleaded for understanding and compliance.

Reggie's eyes moved past him to Dean. The startling green orbs were no longer fixed on the woods, their cutting brilliance was instead focused on her. His arms were also crossed. He offered no words of explanation. His expression clearly said, _If I told you to get in the car I had a damn good reason, so you'd better bloody well do it!_

Reggie's chin came up, she wanted to protest, to flout the clearly implied _order_ but, as always, her gift gave her just a bit to much information to allow her to indulge in a much desired fit or rebellion. Behind Dean's arbitrary demand there was real fear. Whatever was out there, it scared him. It was vicious and cruel and _smart! _And it was onto them. This was different from the spirits she had fought with the Winchesters, however malignant and unusual they had been. She had never really seen him like this, felt him like this. All cold precision and rigid control. Oh she'd seen both brothers flick that internal switch, the one that took them from lovable rebel and sweetly smiling bleeding heart to deadly soldier in the blink of an eye, but this was different. This time the enemy wasn't a spectral entity confined to specific locations or locked into predictable patterns. This enemy was cunning, unpredictable and _alive. _It sought only to kill, would instinctively seek the most vulnerable prey, and had to _be_ _killed_, to be stopped. Oh yes, Dean was very scared, for her. She could feel it inside him, the thick, oily coils of fear. He _needed_ her to be safe. If she didn't take herself out of the line of fire, both brothers would be left open to an insidious, debilitating distraction. Their need to protect her, it had almost cost them dearly against foes far less complex and deadly than this. Left with no choice, Reggie subsided into the back seat of the Impala, closing the door as she went. She could almost feel Sam and Dean's sighs of relief as she disappeared inside the secure, steel shell of the car.

Still, Reggie didn't miss the telltale flicker of silver that blurred momentarily among the green and brown mass of the trees. The jerk of Sam's head and the jut of Dean's jaw said that they had seen it too. Together, they turned and headed back to the car, Dean tossing Sam the keys as the younger Winchester headed for the trunk, while Dean came around the hood to the driver's side door, there seemed to be no need for them to speak. Neither paused when a second howl split the night but, Reggie could feel the surge of anticipation that spurted through the two men. They recognized the haunting clarion call for what it was, a challenge, and they were already preparing to respond. Reaching the front door, Dean yanked it open and gestured to Reggie.

"Get in the front" he said curtly, without really looking at her. Spurred on by the throbbing beat of his urgent apprehension, Reggie obeyed, scooting over the back of the bench seat and settling into the driver's seat. With business-like efficiency, Dean reached down and adjusted the seat until Reggie's feet could touch the petals and the steering wheel was within her reach. He looked up over the roof of the car to Sam.

"Gun!" he barked.

A small, black handgun sailed through the air, followed by two ammunition clips. Dean snagged each, mid-flight, in rapid succession. Leaning back in through the open door he snapped the first clip into place and held out the gun to Reggie.

"This is a Beretta Compact L. It's reliable so it shouldn't give you any trouble and it's smaller so it should fit your hand well. You've got thirteen rounds plus the second mag, and it's loaded with silver bullets."

He held up the extra clip so that Reggie could see the bright gleam of the metal and quickly demonstrated how to take off the safety, release the magazine and replace it.

"It'll hurt the Wers but, only a direct shot to the heart will kill them. If you have to use it, don't worry about being accurate, just try to do enough damage to buy yourself time to get away. Remember, it's like the shotgun, squeeze the trigger, don't pull."

He tucked the gun and the clip into the side pocket on the door where they would be easily accessible, and wouldn't slide around while she drove. Reggie tried to force herself to focus on the details, to take note of how to reload the gun and absorb all of the necessary information, even as her mind swam and tried to deny the swift pace of the events that were spiraling out of her range of experience as well as her control. She tried to breath deeply, to slow things down inside her own head, to take stock, to get a grip on her whirling thoughts but, Dean was once again commanding her attention. His manner was dispassionate and collected, Reggie almost would have called it professional, this was what he did after all, and his instructions were deliberate.

"Now" he looked back up at her, meeting and holding her eyes for the first time.

"If anything happens to us…"

"Dean" Reggie tried to interrupt but he held up a hand to forestall her, and the look in his eyes made her swallow her protests and her automatic denial.

"If anything happens to us" he repeated firmly.

"You take the car and you get the hell out of here. You can drive stick, right?" He asked, almost as an afterthought.

Reggie nodded mutely and Dean grunted in satisfaction before once more standing to look over the roof.

"Keys!"

The requested item once more soared through the intervening space to be plucked from the air by Dean's quick hand.

"Here" he pushed them against Reggie's palm.

"Put them in the ignition." Again he precluded her words with an upheld hand.

"What's the matter" he said with a lopsided grin,

"You're always bugging me to let you drive my car."

Swallowing thickly, Reggie could only nod slightly. And then she heard Sam's voice. It had and awful, gravelly quality to it, and it was full of quiet warning. Reggie and Dean both swiveled their heads in response.

It sat calmly in the centre of the field. A wolf. But far larger than any wolf Reggie had ever seen. Larger and….different. It was staring at Dean with eyes full of knowledge that no natural animal should possess. Knowledge and a malice not found in nature. A wolf killed to survive, it was not an act of hate but of necessity. There was no pleasure in it. This creature also killed because it needed to. It needed to cause pain, to feel fear, to feed on them. Reggie shuddered as her gift made contact with the outer edges of the Waga's awareness.

She could not believe this. It was going to happen here?! NOW!? The confrontation with the Waga….it was all too fast, and too dangerous. Reggie fought down panic. She tried to speak to Dean, to stop him, to make him see reason, but she once again met that same unassailable wall of systematic, purposeful detachment. Reggie felt frustration roil inside her, mixing into the dark swirls of fear that were filling her. The man drove her insane! Here he was, preparing to stride off into the proverbial sunset, and he wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise. Not even to tell him to be careful. They weren't prepared. She wasn't ready. Dean wasn't ready!

But obviously Dean felt otherwise. He calmly disentangled Reggie's fingers from where they were clutching the sleeve of his shirt and gave them a little squeeze before pressing her hand back against the wheel and stepping back to close the car door. He stood looking at her through the glass of the window. Fighting a hysterical urge to laugh, Reggie gave him what she knew he wanted. He smiled at the unmistakable 'click' of the Impala's locks as they sealed her inside the car. Turning, Dean walked in front of the car and back to the edge of the field, where he paused.

Dean took a deep breath, letting the cool, sweetly scented night air fill his nostrils and his lungs. Without taking his gaze from the monster sitting calmly in the centre of the field, he addressed his brother.

"You ready?"

Sam's voice was even, hard. Dean knew his brother, for all his gentle tendencies, housed a hatred for this kind of creature, those which deliberately and knowingly cultivated pain and fear, at least as great as his own. He didn't have to look into Sam's eyes to know what he'd see there. The blue would be cold and flat, as it so rarely was. Sam was prepare to kill.

"Yeah. What do you think….."

Sam was cut off mid-sentence by the jagged, rasping voice which issued forth from the lupine monstrosity sitting so calmly before them.

The Waga's voice was harsh and rough, and had a forced quality, as though to speak was a great, unnatural undertaking. Long, white teeth glittered menacingly in the pale light of the wan new moon as they carefully negotiated around a lolling pink tongue.

It looked at Dean,

"I would……speak with you." It intoned in that grating hiss.

Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"Did you know it could do that?" he asked with nonchalant unconcern, glancing at Sam.

Sam shrugged, concealing his surprise and concern with equal mastery.

"Nope."

"Hmm" hummed Dean with mild interest. Then he too jerked a shoulder and headed aloofly into the field.

From inside the car, Reggie watched, transfixed with horrified expectation, as Dean approached the creature, her eyes now cataloguing its every terrible, extraordinary feature with sadistic attention to detail.

The Waga was, as she had previously noted, easily twice as large as your average wolf, and appeared to be sort of, hunched, as it crouched in the grass. It's pelt was thick, a rich mixture of charcoal and silver, but somewhat shorter than that of wolf. It covered the animal's powerful limbs like gossamer down, showcasing rather than concealing the long lines of muscle and sinew. Its great, dog-like head was surmounted by large, pointed ears and dominated by slanted eyes of a deep, menacing red set over a long, fine muzzle adorned with impressive, hooked fangs that protruded from its upper jaw. The face was cruelly elegant and surrounded by a dense ruff of resplendent sterling fur. But it was that baleful, penetrating crimson gaze that drew her in. Red was not only what Reggie saw, it was what she felt from the Waga. Red for blood and red for rage. Red for death.

It's emotions were a singular ferocious, convulsing compulsion to destroy, tempered by a cold and calculating reason which contained and focused that furious desire, so that the Waga's goals of torment and destruction could be reached with greater effectiveness and efficiency. She discerned its dark sense of purpose as a glittering line of black drawn round the rioting body of the Waga's bloodlust, channeling and capitalizing on that deadly energy. It rose up slightly as Dean approached it, and Reggie saw that the reason it had appeared hunched was that despite its predominantly lupine body, the Waga's hind limbs were longer than its front, giving it a somewhat lopsided appearance that was offset by its muscular grace and easy balance, as it straightened slightly to display its partially retained bipedal stature, exposing a deep chest and heavy front legs, each of which ended in a mammoth paw tipped with lethal looking claws. Standing on its bent hindquarters, the Waga towered over Dean as he approached. Reggie could not help but marvel at Dean's self-possession. If he was afraid at this moment, he was controlling it well enough to conceal it, even from her. As Dean came to a halt before the hulking, aberrant quadruped, Reggie glanced involuntarily back at Sam.

Dean's mind worked quickly as he advanced into the field to meet his unexpectedly vocal foe, systematically analyzing the creature's possible motivations and his own options should it come down to a fight. The truth was, he didn't much care for his odds at present. He'd never personally dealt with a Waga, and even the detailed journal entry describing his father's one and only encounter with such a creature opened with the warning that Wagas were as individual as the people they had once been. Each would operate according to its own personal tendencies. The mindless primal instincts which drove regular Wers were only partially applicable at best.

Nonetheless, Dean was guessing that the Waga wasn't really all that sharp. It had probably learned that there were new people in town asking questions about the disappearances and the animal attacks by luck as it, or its packmate, engaged in casual contact with other members of the community. Working with what Dean knew about wolves, they weren't really all that brave when it came to other large predators, especially if they were few in number. Dean smiled a bit to himself as he met the animal's abnormally slanted red eyes with their vertical black pupils. They gave the Waga something of a serpentine appearance, as did the sinuous agility with which it moved. It's ceremonious greeting confirmed his suspicions.

"Hello hunter" it growled.

_Hunter_. And that was just it. Dean had to give the beast credit for doing some quick detective work there. The Waga knew what Dean and Sam were and as a predator, Dean was betting it didn't care much for the idea of being prey. It was feeling them out, testing them, trying to decide if they were a real threat and…..

"You should leave this place, lest your packmates pay the price." The Waga threatened.

Trying to intimidate him. All in all, it was a relatively solid strategy and, to Dean's way of thinking, the human rational behind it was still surprising when he was standing face to face with the transformed Waga, even though he knew that there was a human mind, and face, behind the canine mask.

"I don't think we can do that" Dean answered, measuring his response.

He made sure to keep his eyes fixed on the Waga's. Unless he was mistaken, the Waga had chosen him for this little parlay because it had pegged him as the Alpha of his pack. Dean almost smiled as he thought about what Reggie, never mind Sam, would have to say about _that_. As it was, he wasn't too keen on having a throw down, knock out fight with the bastard right this moment, though he hated to let the cowardly little bitch get away, knowing what it might do if it escaped. But the simple truth was, Dean glanced surreptitiously at the sharp, curved, not so subtle menace of the claws that adorned the Waga's huge paws, and the gleaming, _contagious_, danger of the ivory fangs, he was seriously outgunned. The Waga's appearance in the field and its desire to….talk, had come as a surprise to the Winchesters, and they hadn't been fully prepared. Dean hadn't had time to collect his Glock, which he knew Sam had loaded with silver rounds, from the Impala's armoury before walking into the meadow to confront preternatural wolf. He'd felt going to collect the weapon while the Waga watched would have been both a sign of weakness, and aggression, and the Waga wasn't the only one who preferred to test the waters before instigating a full out battle. First rule of engagement, know your enemy.

Therefore, the familiar presence of his favoured Colt 1911, where it rested against the small of his back, was little comfort as it was loaded with standard steel bullets which would do little or no damage to this supernatural monster. He was relying on Sam to have his back if there was trouble. He already knew that his brother was covering him; that their all-purpose, semi-automatic, military-issue M16A2 rifle, carrying hand-made silver rounds, was even now resting in Sam's hands. And that their father's Model 70 Winchester, the long-distance, precision rifle favoured by the best Marine-corps snipers during the Vietnam war, would be sitting within easy reach on top of the Impala's trunk, similarly loaded.

The thought cheered Dean and he relaxed, rocking on the balls of his feet and confusing the hell out of the Waga by grinning. Not even Dean himself was a better shot than Sam with a rifle. In an attempt to recover control of a situation it had obviously forfeited command of, though it wasn't exactly sure how, the Waga spoke to Dean again, the coarse, croaking voice ripe with malice.

"If you don't leave, we'll kill you. And then what will your puppy and your mate do? With no one to protect them."

Dean sorted through that information quickly. The Waga had just told him two things, one, he _did_ have a packmate, and two, the Waga assumed that without their leader, the rest of Dean's pack would flounder, which told him that's what the Waga's pack would do. Dean firmly ignored the flashing stab of fear that twisted through him when the Waga threatened Reggie, _his mate. _As for his _puppy……_Oh Sam was going to love that one.

Dean smiled into the Waga's face and stuck his hands in his pockets, clearly displaying his lassitude.

"Well, he's not my puppy, and if you kill me, I can tell you exactly what he'll do. He'll put a silver bullet through your heart."

Dean spoke the words with a matter-of-fact kind of confidence and a cocky smirk that had the Waga casting a suspicious look at Sam, standing tall and steady at the roadside, the rifle at his shoulder, before the animal inside decided the time for talking was done.

It launched itself at Dean without warning or preamble. Fortunately, Dean had kept one eye trained on the Waga's bent, oddly humanoid knees, guessing that in its current, semi-erect state, any move to attack would necessarily be telegraphed through that key joint. Forewarned by the barest twitch of the creature's right hind leg, Dean reacted instantly, and in a way the Waga did not expect. Rather than throwing himself clear of the impressively long reach of the demonic animal's massive forelegs, he ducked the darting, snake-like strike of the beast's bone-crushing maw and dropped straight to the ground, giving Sam a clear shot and trusting implicitly in his brother's marksmanship. Still, the Waga's incredible speed, an unknown factor for Sam, allowed it to dodge what would have been a killing shot, though it could not hold back a whining yelp of pain when the silver bullet buried itself in its shoulder. Two more shots rang forcing the Waga to abandon its attack on Dean as it turned and ran for the woods, alternating between vast leaps powered by the extended hind legs, and a low, slinking scramble that hid the huge grey body among the waving grass. Its final carrying howl was one of victory as it disappeared between the trees.

Reggie was already out of the car and half-way to Dean by the time he regained his feet.

Seeing her running pell-mell towards him through the grass, the Beretta clutched tightly in her right fist, he waved an irritated hand and bellowed,

"I told you to stay in the car!", as he tried to pretend that the sight of the Waga's enormous furred paws, with their wickedly sharp claws, slashing through the air towards him hadn't left his hands with a faint tremor. Immediately, his eyes darted to the woods trying to ascertain if the danger was really past, or if Reggie was running head-long into a trap. His eyes flew to Sam and seeing his brother, rifle still in hand, his eyes still scanning the forest, allowed Dean to relax enough to yell at Reggie properly as she reached him. Or at least, he had every intention of yelling at her for not staying where he put her, _again_, as soon as she stopped shouting at him.

"You idiot! You arrogant, unmitigated, imbecilic, mentally-defective moron!" she raged at him

"What in the hell were you thinking?! Just waltzing out here to have a little chat with the Werewolf! For God's sake, what is _wrong_ with you!"

Dean winced and ducked as she waved the Beretta wildly in agitation. Straightening, he grabbed her wrist and firmly extracted the gun. Keeping his hold on her right hand, he made his way back toward the vigilant Sam, tugging Reggie along in his wake as she continued to rave at him.

"……ignorant, egotistical, block-headed, swaggering, dimwitted, _arrogant _jackass!"

"I might have to agree with that last one" said Sam as they reached him.

"Dude, that was seriously crazy. Even for you. You weren't even armed" he said quietly, his blue eyes censurous as they met Dean's.

Dean shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder,

"I had every confidence in you."

Removing the silver clip from the Beretta and tossing it into the trunk, Dean swapped his Colt for the Glock.

"See, problem solved" he told his brother as he tucked the gun into the back of his waistband. Sam snorted but didn't respond.

Meanwhile, Reggie was still muttering under her breath about "over-confident, idiotic fools….trying to get themselves killed", when Dean turned to her.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car" he said.

She cast him a positively murderous look,

"Oh that's right Winchester, let's make this about me not staying in the car after you almost got yourself _killed_, instead of you taking off to have a talk with our furry pal, _unarmed! _I swear to God, you say one word to me about doing something stupid or unsafe, and I'm going to knock you into next Thursday! You hypocrite!"

"Now now" Dean resisted the urge to laugh at the threat. Reggie looked genuinely distraught, and there had been a sheen of tears in her eyes when she'd reached him in the field.

"You can sweet talk me later, right now, I need to know if you can feel the Waga."

Hissing out a final, agitated breath, Reggie deflated.

"Yes" she answered tiredly,

"I can feel him."

Dean nodded,

"Good. Can you tell if he's still here…." He didn't bother to finish the sentence as yet another howl filled the night.

"Smug Bastard" muttered Dean.

Beside Sam Reggie visibly paled as she cast her gift out, searching for the Waga's distinctive, dark presence. Even as she opened her mouth to tell the Winchesters about the unfettered, red haze of rabid savagery she'd detected, as second keening yowl rose to join the first.

"Ah shit" muttered Sam,

"There's the other one."

But Reggie was shaking her head.

"No" she whispered,

"There's…."

Yet another wolf bayed from the perimeter of the woods, its voice rising to join the other two in an unholy harmony of menace, telling the Winchesters what Reggie had just discovered. There were two additional creatures of wild, frenzied hatred out there. The crazed zealousness of their general enmity registering on her senses like two, unconstrained, noxious, scarlet clouds, in comparison to the Waga's fury, encapsulated by the thin ebony veneer that checked its greed for slaughter in order that carnage might be produced with greater proficiency.

_Three_. Reggie thought with silent horror. There were three killing machines stalking the woods and valleys of Hot Springs County.


	69. Chapter 69

AN: Alright, so what's her excuse this time? you must all be wondering, since this is yet another late update. But this time, it really isn't my fault. I was going nuts trying to get this ready to post before I left for the cottage on Sunday, but then my Mom said not to worry, they had just installed internet in our godforsaken Northern Ontario, at the edge of the known world, cottage. So, I figured I'd post on Mon. Yeah, well, of course, the new internet connection has been giving them problems and wouldn't work. Typical. However, this is an intense, if somewhat shorter chapter, and instead of getting ahead with my writing as I had planned, I wound up going over this again and again, which in the end, I think, yeilded better results. It is now a chapter I feel quite proud of, so I hope you all enjoy, despite the delay. Happy Reading.

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"Shit." Dean's curse was simple, succinct, and pretty much summed up the speeding freight train of thought, heavy with dread, uncertainty, and residual fear, barreling though Reggie's mind.

"Yeah" Sam's agreement was a bit breathless with shock and misgiving at the magnitude of the revelation. He dragged a hand over his face in a gesture of worry that Reggie associated more with Dean. The cool silver light of the moon, which Reggie realized after tonight would never again hold the same quasi-mystical beauty for her it once had, but rather carry a connotation of fear, frenzy, and death, cast his tight features in sharp relief, making him look older than he was.

"So what now?" he looked at Dean.

"They know who we are. They know who she is", he jerked his chin at Reggie.

Dean's mouth flattened into a hard line.

"We'll have to-"

His reply was abruptly cut off by another cry sounding from the distant green/brown shadows of the forest.

It was a horrible, gut-wrenching shriek of agony, pregnant with pure terror.

And it was human.

Sam's mouth dropped open in surprised horror, Dean's brows snapped together and his gaze raked the edge of the trees, stabbing into the murky darkness with such intensity, Reggie actually believed he might somehow be able to penetrate the thick gloom. In that moment he appeared to Reggie to be more predatory than even the Waga, one hunter hunting another. For a moment there was ominous, anticipatory silence matched by a foreboding stillness that was broken by a second wail of suffering.

Dean and Sam burst into a flurry of activity.

There was no detached, measured calm now, though there was still a sharp sort of precision in the way the brothers snapped into action. Dean dove for the trunk and the rifles, barely looking at Sam before tossing him the M16 and snatching up the Winchester. Sam was already headed in the direction of the screams, driven on by their desperate, ragged quality. They had become broken, the sheer volume and intensity of the horrified sound now stilted, halting, terror itself shredded and tattered by pain, tattered and…….fading.

Dean only intended to pause long enough to shove the Beretta back into Reggie's hand and issue a terse order to get her butt back in the car and stay there. In fact, he had taken four long strides into the waving sea of dry meadow grass before the look he cast back over his shoulder told him she hadn't listened.

She wasn't on his heels, as he'd half expected her to be. She was standing where he had left her, staring rigidly into the trees, the gun hanging limply at her side.

"Goddamnit! Sam!" he bellowed, heading back the way he had come and gesturing for his brother to wait. Obviously mutinous, Sam slowed but did not stop his advance. Cursing under his breath and torn between his need to get Reggie somewhere safe, or follow his brother who was hell-bent on running headlong into what was undoubtedly one of the most dangerous situations they had ever found themselves, he prayed Reggie wouldn't be as stubborn as she usually was.

Reaching her, Dean grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to make her look at him.

"Hey" he said, right in her face. Nothing.

"Hey!" No response.

Reggie had staggered when it hit her. Stricken, mentally, emotionally, physically, she had become transfixed, frozen with horror, with fear, with helplessness, both new and remembered. It was a bit like with her grandmother.

She was dying. And the feeling of that finality, of that fear, of that anguished agony of knowledge, as well as the physical pain of razor like teeth rending her flesh, the tear and tug, the slippery warm slide of blood, _her blood_, her life as it flowed away, held her in a terrible kind of thrall.

Somewhere she knew that Dean was calling her, knew that the screams, at least the kind that could be heard, had stopped. She knew that Sam was running, his long legs eating up the ground, his heart thundering with fury and fear and the kind of denial that was desperate hope.

_Too late, _she wanted to tell him, and then _smack_! The sting and shock of Dean's light slap was the hook that yanked Reggie back, back into herself, back into the physical, away from the dying woman.

Dean's jade eyes were hard and hot, capturing hers and refusing to let her slip back. His hands cupped her shoulders. He was shaking her.

"Don't do that!" he commanded harshly.

"Don't you _do_ that. I won't let you!" He looked furious and scared.

"Wha-?" Reggie fought to form the words.

"I'm fine." She met his gaze defiantly.

"I'm not doing anything!"

"Yes you are. I can tell" Dean's voice was low and strained.

"You were going…going to-" he swallowed hard.

"To _die with her_." The last words were barely a whisper.

Reggie thought about denying it, but there wasn't time.

Her hands came up to grip the red and white plaid of Dean's button-down shirt where it lay open exposing the white tee beneath. The buttons bit into her flesh where she squeezed too tightly, but she didn't notice.

"I have to" she whispered back. He shook his head but she continued, her voice thick with conviction.

"It's my responsibility. Don't you see?"

He was still stubbornly shaking his head. Desperate, Reggie searched for a way to make him understand, to make the protector within him realize that it wasn't he alone who had been assigned a duty by the life he had been raised to live. That was a part of who he was.

"You hunt because you have a knowledge of evil that would make it impossible for you to sit by and do nothing when that darkness is abroad in the world and so many are ignorant of it. So many are vulnerable. The circumstances of your life have given you the understanding and the skills to do something about it. You didn't _chose _to be _what_ you are, but you're obligated to act just the same, because it's a part of _who_ you are. It's the same for me. Not so much 'want' but 'need', 'must'. My gift, it makes me responsible. You have to save as many people as you can, I have to use my ability to help as many as I can. You couldn't have left her to the Wers if you'd been in a position to stop them, but you weren't. It's not your fault, there was nothing you could have done, no way for you to have known, but there is something I can do. She _is_ going to die. But she doesn't have to die _alone._ I _can't_ let her."

She could see the realization dawning, see him fighting it, but knew she had made the one argument he couldn't deny. She was right about his sense of responsibility. Dean's sense of loyalty and honour would never allow him to leave people, blissfully unaware of their danger, to a grisly death at the hands of the kind of creatures they couldn't even dream of, when he could save them. It was why he would always be a hunter. And she could not withhold herself when she could ease this woman's suffering, even if it was only a little.

Dean closed his eyes for a second, breaking their magnetic emerald hold on her. Releasing her.

"What can I do?" he murmured.

Her fingers tightened again and Reggie took a deep, gulping breath.

"Just be here when I get back" she whispered, and flung herself back into the eddy of darkness before she could hesitate or allow her reluctant fear to get the better of her.

It was faint now, the feeble heartbeat a living thing that beckoned Reggie across the expanse of parched, sage -coloured grass. She flew away from herself, from Dean, past the waiting Sam, giving him a gentle push, _go back_, as she floated by. She gave him the truth, he was too late, but gently, sucking away the flare of inadequacy and guilt before it set aflame the mountains of tinder, self-loathing and fear, dread and darkness, that were stacked within his heart like so much kindling. She prayed that the spark that could ignite that blaze never found him because she could clearly see in this moment, this fleeting glimpse as she sped by, that there was enough there to burn Sam and all he was, to ash. And then she was there.

She couldn't _see_ it the way she would have with her eyes. But she could see the woman, the pale, waning pattern of the soul that she had once been. Reggie was ashamed of herself for feeling relieved when she realized that, though her conversation with Dean could have taken no more than a minute in reality, it had been long enough for numbness to set in, at least on a physical level. Whatever the Wers were doing to her body, and Reggie deliberately closed herself to their seething, hungry presences, their victim no longer felt it. The separation between spirit and body was already too far along, the body already given up as lost, and the spirit consumed with the exertion of dying. But there was still so much left to _feel_, in these last moments.

At first it was such a jumble, thoughts and feelings crisscrossing boundaries, one becoming the other, some clashing in conflict, others striking swift and hot like lightening and dissipating as quickly, all of it shrouded in fear. There was nothing to be done but to start. Not knowing exactly what to expect, Reggie reached out and gripped the net of fear that caged the rest of the woman's emotions, ripping it away. For a moment the turmoil and the raw punch of energy that streaked out from the dissipating soul stunned her, but she struggled against the urge to let go. Instead, she tried to untangle it.

_Not alone. You're not alone._

They weren't so much words, but the feeling that was the opposite of the lonely, isolated terror of the black night and the tall trees, the strange creatures and the flashing teeth.

The tumult receded a bit, enough for Reggie to feel for something else.

Fear had been first, the most powerful, what next?

Regret, it swelled like a rising tide.

It was something she could not stop, so instead she used it, pulled it to the fore. It helped the unknown woman to focus on the sudden pangs, because they were tied to love. Using her gift to stabilize the woman, Reggie helped her to walk through her family, one face at a time, and once more allow her to feel the love and the joy they had brought her……..and to say goodbye.

By the time the last face had faded, the sandy-haired infant with the stub nose decorated by four perfect freckles, whose smile had been the greatest light of a young life, much of the rest of the roaring whirl of feeling had diminished, the final remnants of the unnamed victim spent in the recollection of love.

Finally, there was confusion, as the lingering vestiges of human awareness ebbed. It was at once slow and gradual, and also swift and inexorable. It was silence that was more than the absence of sound, and it was colourless. Not pale, not black and white, not even invisible or gone, the world was just void. Eyes sightless, chest breathless, heart, beatless. Spirit, not gone…but changed, and departed. And in that moment, when the last trace of the soul that had given feeling to the now ruined body fled, Reggie could see no more, her gift blind in the sudden absence of emotion, of life.

As Reggie surfaced from the abrupt descent into quiet, dead quiet, she found even the noxious presence that was the Wers was gone, though they left a stench, satisfaction, delight, triumph in the pain, in the mutilation of the body they had left behind. Reggie only had a second to be glad she couldn't see it, before she returned to herself. She dreaded that impact, back into her own emotion. The woman might have been gone, free of the sorrow, of the pain, but Reggie could still feel, and when she returned to herself she knew she would. She would feel all the agony and the furious frustrations of helplessness and injustice, not only for the woman but for the people for whom the victim had felt such love as to make their faces visible to Reggie's gift. The husband who would lose his wife to senseless brutality, who would never really know what happened. The child who was so young he would, like Sam, likely remember nothing of his mother save the hole she left by not being there. They were two more parents that would bury their child, another sibling who would lose a sister. Reggie almost couldn't bear to think of it, but she had to go back.

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes were Dean's eyes, soft with worry and dark with sorrow.

Her first impulse was to weep, but she found her cheeks were already wet with tears she did not remember crying.

The connection was deep, instant, complete. Dean did what no other could have done in that moment, because he had come to mean what no other human being ever had to Reggie. Safety, real security, because when she looked at him, into his eyes, she saw herself, knew who she was. It was over in a second, Dean breaking the contact first, his eyes dropping away, then the hands that had gripped her shoulders. Reggie withdrew as quickly, as awkward and unsure in the face of that moment of clarity which, with so many feelings unacknowledged, only made things more confused. But at least the raw burn of the victim's suffering was curbed, though even the residue was enough to make the small hands that still held Dean's shirt tremble.

Reggie shut down the channel of thought and emotion that wanted to worry and stew and dissect her troublesome relationship with the enigmatic hunter. She didn't have the energy. She knew it couldn't be long, that she couldn't fight it, the need to wallow, to feel it all, to wonder and rail and re-live the seeming unending horror of the night. From the greasy glitter of the Waga's calculation, to the slash of that insanely cruel and insatiable hunger. The fear of seeing the huge paw swinging at Dean's unprotected head, and then the vicious, unexpected assault of the victim's fear and pain. The death. She hadn't remembered, or perhaps she now realized, she hadn't felt it so keenly, the experience with her grandmother hadn't been as unadulterated as she'd thought. Gran must have done a better job of shielding her than she'd thought, because she'd been unprepared. Still, it was another layer of trauma to pile onto her strained nerves, acid on her battered, lacerated heart. The combination of old and new distress, in addition to the terrifying confrontation with the deliberate, premeditated assault of the Wers, made this night an ordeal she wouldn't soon forget. In fact, the trickle of negative emotions, the sense of injustice, the sorrow and the grief, her own mixed with what she had taken from the victim, top it with her confused, almost panicky rebellion against her desire to fling herself into Dean's arms and let him make it all better, it made her stomach roll. And suddenly, she needed to escape, her heart, her gift, her very skin, she needed out, or at the very least, a little relief.

Dean sucked in his breath when he felt the palm of Reggie's right hand skim over his shirt and across his chest. He didn't know what he would do if she collapsed, if she clung to him, if she touched him. She had the right. Tonight she had lived a nightmare, he couldn't begin to imagine what it must have been like, to go to the dying woman, to share the affliction of death with another so that their suffering might be eased, while increasing her own pain a hundred times, taking into herself all of the horrible, frightening, heartrending emotions that no human was meant to live with. Being left with them while the soul in her charge escaped into…..whatever came next. The nameless woman's torment was at an end, at least for her. She was free, but Reggie, Reggie would carry whatever chilling revelation, whatever sorrow and pain she had shared there, for the rest of her life. It was a sacrifice he knew he could barely begin to comprehend.

She'd been afraid, he'd seen it in her eyes, and still she'd gone, and she'd come back with new shadows marring their tawny luminescence. Tonight, he knew he wouldn't be able to deny her anything, anything she asked, gave even the faintest hint she might desire, it was hers. He was hers. He'd felt it too, that initial link, and had fled from what it might mean, just as he always did. But if she asked……but she didn't. Her searching fingers left his body to delve unexpectedly into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. It took Dean several seconds to realize she was reaching for the metal flask she knew he kept there, and several more to overcome his shock.

When Dean reached out and grabbed Reggie by the wrist, halting the progress of the round, elaborately etched silver container, her eyes snapped defiantly up to his.

For a moment he measured the darkness there, the antagonism, and behind it all, a desperation he'd never witnessed in her before. He could almost see them, one tier of pressure, of strain, of worry and of fear, stacked on top of another. See the strata of anxiety and fright and smarting, endless, aching sadness pressing on her, threatening to break her.

Reggie jutted her chin with uncharacteristic and unapologetic aggression as she dared Dean to deny her. Goddamnit! She'd had a helluva night. In fact, she'd had a helluva day, week, month….. It seemed like she'd been carrying these burdens of uneasy concern and fear forever. Dean had no right to stop her, he was the one who carried a friggin' ready supply of liquid escapism! After studying her intensely for a moment as she glared, he removed the round flask from her hand and replaced it in his jacket, but before she could open her mouth to lambaste his hypocritical behaviour, he reached into another pocket and removed an unadorned rectangular flask which he replaced in her palm.

"That other one's the holy water" he said by way of explanation, his eyes never leaving her face.

They held an infuriating expression of understanding. As if he could ever understand! She was suddenly venomously opposed to his silent empathy. It was too much like pity. Tossing her head and welcoming the burn of anger, Reggie rejected his wordless concern. Somewhere she knew her reaction was unreasonable, that there had been no judgment, and certainly no insipid implication that he could somehow share or ever grasp the magnitude what she had just done. On the contrary, his behaviour bespoke an unvoiced but unconditional, undemanding, unpresuming support, and for some reason, that only made her angrier. _Screw logic! _How dare he be so calm! How dare he behave so well! When she was preparing to fly apart at the seams! Her eyes cut to Sam. He'd certainly be judging her, Mr. Morality.

_Well fuck it! _she thought, indulging in the warm glow of the unreasonable rage that she was cherishing in her chest.

Spinning the cap on the flagon loose, she tilted her head and took a generous mouthful, hostility emanating from the rigid lines of her body.

Dean watched Reggie warily as he saw the flash of fury in her eyes, the belligerence in her body language as she drank from the flask. To his surprise she neither sputtered nor coughed as the alcohol slid down her throat. In fact, she didn't even twitch, she merely cast him a baleful look of contempt and said with distain,

"Jim Bean? Can't even trust you to have decent taste in whisky" before taking another long swallow.

Taking great satisfaction in Dean's obvious surprise, Reggie strolled towards the Impala, beckoning both Winchester's and downing the last of swig of liquor left in the flask as she went.

"C'mon" she ordered,

"I'm going to need another drink."


	70. Chapter 70

AN: I have returned from the proverbial dead. Long story short, car accident (not serious but enough to throw me off my writing stride, see my profile for further details), then exam and general crazyness. Thanks so much to all of you who have said that you love the story and that you have missed it. I assure you, I have missed all of you as well and I have no intenstion of abandoning Reggie, Dean, Sam and Cami, anytime soon. I wanted to post this earlier, but was unhappy with me and I couldn't. I hope you enjoy and I'm actually almost don with the next chapter so it should be up soon. I hope it is all okay, it has been a bit difficult to get back into the swing of things after being unable to write for so long and I'm a bit nervous about this stuff as I've done it rather quickly. Enjoy and let me know you're still with me.

luv Artemis

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Reggie tried to watch the shadowy night scenery that flashed by the Impala's window to distract herself but, the darkness on the other side of the glass made it an opaque mirror, and all she saw was her own reflection swallowed by the blackness that was all around. The hot eyes that were too dry and the flat mouth, she didn't recognize the person there but, she also couldn't seem to look away. She couldn't escape what she had felt, what she knew. And the feeling that there were invisible, inexorable walls closing in on her, smothering her, sorrow and fear and sadness that weren't her own threatening to squeeze her out of existence, that just wouldn't be controlled or repressed or forgotten or ignored. The desperate need to escape, that she was drowning, clawed away at every layer of defensive emotion she built against it over a lifetime of enduring the infuriating impotence of her own weakness in the face of her father's abuse. Even the anger that had flared so hot, that had felt so warm and so bright, so strong, was being slowly eaten away. She needed something else, anything that could stifle this…..this, helplessness, or at least numb her enough so that it might pass through her, as though she were an empty vessel.

She needed to seal herself off. She couldn't smooth out the jagged emotional landscape that made her who she was, that rough, uneven surface of broken feelings that would catch and snag the fabric of despair that didn't belong to her. Allowing the tattered remnants of fear and anger and sorrow to cling to her own soul like ragged black flags, creating wounds, openings in her carefully maintained shield that would become sites where her own insecurities and pain could fester. No she couldn't smooth it, so she would hollow it out instead. Just for tonight, she would use whatever means necessary to carve out her own emotional reality enough to allow the slithering, seething mass of borrowed darkness to pass though her as though she were no more than a vacant building. Tonight when the demons came calling, Regina Thorpington wasn't going to be home. But that was going to take some doing. She only prayed the alcohol would work.

Dean drove west, away from Thermopolis, searching for he didn't know what. Reggie had her eyes perpetually turned to the window, as if she were looking for something, he figured she'd let him know when she found whatever it was she needed. He wasn't sure if she'd been serious about wanting another drink, though he could hardly blame her if she was. The problem was, he'd been fine, just fine, after his original showdown with the Waga and the other Wers, but having to watch Reggie's face as she fought an enemy he couldn't see, in a vicious battle he couldn't participate in, knowing he couldn't protect her, much less the woman whose screams had sunk wicked claws of guilt and rage into his heart and brain. It had left a foul, bitter taste in his mouth, and the tears that had run down her cheeks as her eyes had stared past him, fixed and blank, held by the face of the ultimate enemy, death itself, Godamnit!

He wasn't taking it very well at all. To be honest, he'd really have loved to kill something. Just tear it apart with his bare hands, they tightened convulsively on the Impala's wheel. It was the only thing that would release some of the furious tension fueled by helplessness, that he was feeling. The fact that Reggie hadn't picked up on his volatile feelings only further testified to her state. For the moment he prayed she stayed distracted, because if she looked _into_ him right now, the way he could sometimes tell she was doing, when her tawny eyes almost seemed to glow, he knew that she would be able to see, at the heart of his anger, the root of his fear, all of the things he didn't want her to see and wasn't ready to admit, especially to himself. And as if all that weren't enough, Sam was a silent, brooding presence in the backseat. An oppressive feeling of hopelessness was rolling off him in waves, the black wings of his despair were almost palpable, and the fabric of his dark fears were drawn in tight about him, shrouding him like a cloak.

Dean fought the need to release the roar of frustration that was building in his throat, to shatter the silence in the car, to drag Reggie and Sam back to him, from whatever dark, private places they had fled. It was in a way, the realization of his worst nightmare. To be useless to those he loved, because Dean knew that all his skill as a hunter, with weapons, as a soldier, the skills he had spent a lifetime honing, couldn't save Reggie or Sam from the kinds of demons they were facing tonight.

"There!" Reggie's sudden exclamation had Dean slamming on the brakes before he'd even realized he was doing it.

"Where?" he asked, looking around and wondering what he was supposed to be seeing.

It was a derelict looking building made of fading blue clapboard, the sign beside the door had a wildly tipsy tilt to it, and appropriately read,

The Drunken Squirrel.

"You're kidding" muttered Dean, though he already knew she wasn't.

"Just park" came the clipped order.

It was her voice that got to him, the edge that tried to belie the raggedness beneath, it made him less inclined to argue.

He let Sam and Reggie head up the rickety looking wooden steps first, surveying the sea of polished chrome and steel that filled the roughly paved parking lot. But it wasn't the bare metal of the large, impressive looking motorcycles that worried him. Most of the men who rode them would belong to a breed he both understood and, for the most part, respected. They had rules, or at the very least guidelines, a code of sorts which they followed and which he knew. No man who'd spent as much of his life on the road as Dean Winchester could fail to recognize and understand those men. It was the splashes of colour, the bright reds and blues, the neon greens, the purples, that stood out among the naked steel of the other machines that gave him pause. Racers. Stupid, unusually rich, spoiled, arrogant as all hell, and out joyriding, looking for girls, or trouble, or, as he rather suspected was going to be the case with Reggie, both at the same time. Heaving a sigh, Dean followed Reggie and Sam. He took the steps three at a time.

Pushing through the wooden door Dean blinked rapidly to combat the drying, acridic sting of the smoke which hung like a thick, dense fog over the heads of the small bar's patrons. The bluish screen of gloom turned the long, relatively shallow room into mysterious, murky den, full of God knew what kind of animals, Dean thought irritably to himself as he wove expertly through the throng of crowded, round tables toward the long bar which stretched across the far wall. His eyes flickered across the faces of the men as they materialized out of the grey haze, and trying to read the potential threat in the hulking, mostly obscured shapes which moved in the dimly lit recesses of the dingy old watering hole. The fact that this was precisely the kind of place were he himself would have chosen to hang out, small, dark, and well off the beaten track, had he been on his own and looking for a little recreational socializing, or some action at the pool table or the dart board, left him no doubt that it was _exactly_ the kind of place he would _never_ take Reggie.

He could see her small form not too far ahead of him, she'd almost reached the bar, and Sam's lanky one trailing behind her, shoulders hunched. His hand twitched involuntarily when he saw a disembodied arm dart from the smoky shadows towards her as she passed, and smiled when, even as his own arm rose, Sam's hand flashed forward, knocking aside the grasping fingers to which Reggie remained oblivious. Sam might have been brooding, but he was still sharp, it was a comforting thought to Dean as he surveyed the rough looking crowd in the bar as his eyes finally adjusted to the gloom and he was able to pick out a handful of red, blue and white leather among the throng of basic black. Frowning, Dean closed the last of the distance between himself and the bar, arriving just in time to find Reggie eyeballing the bartender, a large man with a fiery red beard and long, matching auburn braids, and demanding,

"I'll have whiskey."

Plunking both of her elbows on the bar, she didn't offer her customary smile but that didn't seem to matter to Redbeard because he, rather surprisingly, smiled at her, and it was a genuine grin. His brown eyes lit with something that was warm and indulgent.

"Will ye now" he asked in a faded brogue, his brows arching and the twinkle of amusement in his eye was reflected in his voice. And why not, thought Dean, after all, it couldn't be everyday that pretty young women with soft curls and fresh faces, whose shoulders barely reached the top of his tall bar, waltzed in and demanded hard liquor. If it hadn't been for the fact that Dean had long ago stopped tying to figure Reggie out, he'd probably have found the situation more surprising, and quite a bit funnier, himself. But knowing what kind of desperation was driving Reggie, the dark ordeal she had just endured, Dean stepped forward to intervene, the last thing he needed was for the old bartender to demand to see some ID, when something on the long mirrored shelf behind the bar seemed to catch Reggie's attention.

"What are you doing with a bottle of Laphroaig 30 Year Old?!" she blurted out without thinking.

This time the bartender's bushy eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair. Never taking his eyes from Reggie, giving her that look with which Dean had become so familiar, that measuring look of re-evaluation that always crossed peoples faces when she did or said something that made it clear that she was so much more than just a sweet, guileless young woman, Redbeard reached behind him and took down a green glass bottle with a manila coloured label.

"An' what would a wee lass like you be knowin' about Laphroaig?" he asked.

Reggie seemed to struggle briefly, as if unsure of whether of not she wanted to be distracted from her single-minded path of torment and her determination to reach the comfort of alcohol-induced oblivion.

_What the hell_, she decided with a mental shrug.

"I know that it's among the rarest of the Islay single malts, which means it's some of the best Scotch you can get…well, anywhere. I don't even know where else you'd find a bottle in the U.S., except in a private collection."

Redbeard stared at her.

Dean took the opportunity to interject.

"What's Islay?" he asked.

Reggie never looked away from the bartender,

"Eye-la" she stressed the phonetic pronunciation of the old Gaelic word,

"Is a small island in the Southern Inner Hebrides. It's only about 239 square miles, and it's home to no less than eight whiskey distilleries and therefore, not surprisingly, produces the best single malt scotch in the world.

"I'll be damned" said Redbeard, the twinkle back in his eye.

"Well lass, I'd say tha' tha' deserves a drink tha' does" and he took down two tumblers.

For a moment Reggie seemed to hesitate, and then said with some regret in her voice.

"Thank you but no. Laphroaig's too fine to be wasted on what I'm after tonight, and in any case, I'm more a fan of the simple aggression in Lagavulin 16. I'll take a hit of Jameson's, neat, and the bottle if you don't mind."

Redbeard's mouth flattened a little as he understood her meaning, and Dean had no doubt that he was wondering what it was that would send a girl who looked and spoke like Reggie, who despite, to everyone's surprise, being something of an expert on single-malt scotch (was he _ever_ going to figure her out), was obviously not a drinker, running to the bottle. But Dean knew, and so he gave Redbeard the most imperceptible of nods over Reggie's head, and thanked God that due to her distress, she wasn't as cannily observant as usual, or both he and the concerned bartender would have been catching hell over what she would no doubt have seen as chauvinistic condescension. With a sigh, Redbeard set the bottle of Jameson's on the counter, and then said in a cajoling tone, turning to take yet another emerald-hued bottle form the shelf.

"I'm a fan o' Lagavulin meself. Have ye ever tried therSpecial Release 12 yr. Old? Common, jus' one. On thee 'ouse, as malt as this un's meant t'be drunk in c'mp'ny as can appreciate it, an' I get precious little o'tha ilk in 'ere."

Dean saw Reggie soften a little at the man's intimation of loneliness.

"Alright, just one."

Redbeard smiled,

"I'm Mac" he said, holding out one massive paw to shake as the other poured the scotch without spilling a drop.

"Reggie" Reggie responded, shaking dutifully,

"And this is Sam and Dean" she pointed to a brother on either side of her in turn.

Mac nodded,

"What can I get ye?"

"Beer and a shot of vodka" said Sam, who was a withdrawn presence on Reggie's left.

"I'll have what she's having' said Dean.

Mac nodded and poured Dean a shot of Jameson's, while Dean reached out curiously to snag and sniff at the tumbler of deep amber liquid Mac had set in front of Reggie.

He tried valiantly not to cough when he got a nose-full of the sharp, burning fumes from the glass that threatened to make his eyes water. It was all peat smoke and sea spray.

"Jesus" he muttered, his throat thick,

"You're going to drink that?"

"Ha!" Mac thumped him companionably on the back,

"I'm afraid Lagavulin's only fer those as is us'd t'it."

"Right. Sure" muttered Dean as he watched Reggie sip at the contents of the glass he handed back to her. Nothing like a grimace even once threatened to twist her features as she swallowed the powerful stuff, in fact, Dean was pretty sure something like a smile had been flitting at the edges of her mouth.

But it only lasted for a moment. When the last drop of scotch was gone from the glass, it was as if Reggie suddenly remembered why she was here, and all too well, what it was she was running from. The thing that she couldn't escape. Dean felt his own temporarily displaced feelings of anger, guilt and worry rush back into him as the darkness in Reggie's eyes rose once again. With only a curt nod to Mac, she grabbed the bottle and her glass, and headed for the back of the dark room.

Sam followed immediately after, he had yet to speak other than to order a drink and, like Reggie, was carrying a bottle of his chosen poison. As he turned to follow Reggie and his brother, Mac caught Dean's arm.

"Here" he said, voice low,

"Ye be careful o' th' lass tonight. Normally, I woldna hav' any worries wi' m'regular lot, but there's som' folk down from th' city…" Dean followed his glance to the table where the bright colours of the racers stood out amidst the dark garb of the other patrons. One in particular, who wore a black leather racing jacket with white trim that made him stand out like a beacon in the dark room, was already casting a lascivious eye her way. Dean cringed inwardly at the thought of tangling with a man who was willing to draw attention, and probably unfriendly attention at that, to himself in a place like this. He was either really stupid or….. Dean didn't want to think about the other alternative. It would mean his night wasn't over yet. It was funny, he was a fighter by trade but he never actually went _looking_ for trouble with his _own_ kind. _I always do seem to find it though_, he thought ironically to himself, sizing up the other man's cocky posture and domineering attitude as he watched him hold court among his friends.

"Yeah" Dean acknowledged Mac's warning in a way that let the other man know they understood each other perfectly. With an approving nod, the bartender released Dean and went back to mopping the scarred surface of his bar.

Dean chose a table near the back of the bar for their party, hoping he, Sam and Reggie might be able to fade into the background enough to duck any unwanted attention, drown their sorrows and lick their wounds in peace for awhile, and then slip out. Watching the way the white racer's eyes followed the sway of Reggie's denim clad hips as she made her way between the tightly packed tables, he doubted it. She was considerably younger, and a damn sight prettier than any of the other women in the place, and Dean didn't think the racer was going to be the type to notice and defer to her drawn expression and dark eyes. The hunched shoulders that begged for solitude. Dean felt something inside flinch at the sight of her dejected, defensive posture. She looked like an injured animal that fears the hunter but is too tired to flee. But tonight, Reggie wouldn't have to fight off the wolves. That was his job. _It's the least you can do_, he berated himself, _Since you were __**sooo**__ helpful earlier._

That was the advantage to their little corner of the smoke-laden, sweat-stained, road warrior's paradise. It was in the building's south east corner and allowed him and unobstructed view of the door as well as most of the dim room. He sat in the far chair with his back to the wall, while Reggie and Sam took two of the remaining three seats. At first the strained intensity of the atmosphere his companions generated didn't bother Dean. He was too busy cataloguing and analyzing as many of the bar's other customers as he could make out and, calculating the best escape routes. He was always careful, even when he wasn't anticipating trouble, but so far, this night had been nothing but, and his luck didn't look to be changing anytime soon. What's more, tonight he wanted to be well prepared because, if the way Sam was currently burning through his vodka was any indication, he was going to be piss poor backup, and he wasn't the only one. Reggie's glass rose and fell at almost twice the speed of Sam's.

Dean turned his attention to her, scrutinizing her as subtly as possible. She was his last unknown factor. As with everything, Dean knew Sam inside and out. He knew exactly how much alcohol his brother could have before he started to get sloppy and, unfortunately for both of the them, the super-sonic metabolism which kept Sam perpetually on the lanky side, also made him the world's biggest light-weight. He knew how to read his brother's expressions and body language to tell which version of drunken Sam he would be dealing with. There was snarkey, belligerent, and brooding. The heavy cast of Sam's eyes and the way he kept staring intently into the bottom of his glass, told Dean that the darkness that hunted his brother, the frustration and fury that boiled inside, were preparing to make an appearance. But Dean had no idea what Reggie would do. Would she cry, scream, laugh? Would she be a cheap drunk? He was already doubting that. She drank with the purpose and determination of a person who knows that their goal is a long way off. Still, he had to wonder, would that unshakable wall around her be dented by the alcohol, would the whiskey and the trauma finally do what he hadn't been able to and shake her loose from that cast-iron noose of self-control? And what would he do if it did? What would she do?

Dean took three shots of Reggie's Jameson's in rapid succession.

Would she cry in his arms? Could he hold her and offer comfort without crossing the invisible line he'd drawn between them? Worse yet, could he resist again, if she crossed it? The memory of the priest's closet was like a firebrand in his mind. It burned him night and day.

Dean slugged back another shot and closed his eyes as the fiery liquid slid down his throat and the myriad of questions with no answers chased each other through his head.

It was Reggie's voice that broke the silence.

"Why…..why are they somehow so much…worse? Then anything else I've hunted with you. Any of the spirits that have been human, even the demon…" Her halting voice trailed off. She only raised her eyes to look at Dean as she finished, something in the golden depths imploring him to make some sense of the carnage and the pain, and the deep, piercing fear the Waga had sent spearing into the souls of all three of them. Something that had to do not with its supernatural qualities, but with its twisted humanity.

Dean's shoulders jerked up as he struggled to answer.

"Maybe because we recognize something of ourselves in it. We can see that it's human, on some level, consciously human in a way nothing else we hunt is….God!"

His breath hissed out and his fist struck the table in a sudden show of frustrated aggression that surprised even him.

"The fucker _planned_ it! He planned to have that girl there as backup, in case we didn't back down. He was mocking us! Taunting us! Showing us we couldn't defeat him, that he was smarter….GODDAMNIT! I….I….We couldn't save her, and he wanted us to know it."

Dean squeezed his hands into fists, fighting the rage that flared through him, the fury at his own impotence, and even that couldn't quite drown the unfathomable sorrow, the tidal wave of guilt. _You didn't save her. You couldn't. _The words ran over and over in his mind. Who would he fail to save next? Sam, or maybe Reggie? Dean's dark thoughts were cut off by Sam, who had been violently snapped out of the dark, comfortable well of his melancholy by his brother's words.

"See some of _ourselves_ in it?" He laughed bitterly,

"You mean, we see _it_ in ourselves." His mouth was twisted and his eyes downcast as he gazed at the glass he was rolling between his large palms.

"We _know_, somewhere deep down" his voice grated harshly over the words,

"We know that it isn't the animal inside that makes the Waga a beast, it's the human. No animal is capable of that kind of deliberate atrocity. They just can't think that way. With that kind of intentional, calculated malice, that's mankind's _special gift_." The last words were laced heavily with irony and personal accusation.

Before Dean could open his mouth to deny the parallel that Sam way implying, Sam plowed on.

"Do you know the story of Lycaon?" He didn't look up for conformation and Dean unconsciously looked at Reggie. She had stopped fidgeting with her glass, it now sat empty on the table in front of her. Her attention was fixed on Sam, her expression set and grim.

"Ovid, Metamorphosis" she said to Dean by way of explanation without so much as glancing his way, she didn't seem to need to see the question on his face to know that he was asking it. Dean decided he would be uncomfortable about that later.

Sam continued, his voice now a lifeless monotone.

"He was a king in ancient Greece. You might say he was the first Werewolf. You know what he did? How he became a wolf?"

It was a rhetorical question.

"He ate the flesh of another man and the Gods transformed him into a wolf as punishment but, Jupiter decided that that wasn't enough. The race of men had sprung from the blood of the Titans after Jupiter slew them for attempting to usurp Olympus, and true to their origin, born of betrayal and blood, he found that the violence and viciousness that Lycaon displayed infected the entirety of the race of men, and so he decided that they needed to be destroyed."

He stopped to take another drink, this time directly from the bottle, before slamming it back down onto the table. His voice was ripe with contempt and disgust when he said,

"Too bad he didn't succeed. The metaphor fits a little too neatly. Man is the only race on earth that preys so wantonly on its own. Even if we're not wholly evil, that perversion still lives within us, we carry the seed of violence. There's something wrong with us. I'm….We're broken and we can't escape what's inside us."

The rambling words choked off and Sam's finger's bit into the tabletop as his head bowed.

Dean was still trying to think of the words that might break through the barrier that Sam was building between himself and the rest of the world. To figure out what to say that would reassure his brother that whatever innate capacity for violence man held, Sam, of all men, was the least rather than the most, likely to exercise it, when Reggie spoke again. Partly because he was often equally afraid of the cold, calculating killer that sometimes surfaced from the depths of his own soul. How many times had he killed to protect his brother, his father? Where was the line to be drawn? Dean was terribly afraid that for him, there was no line. No limit on what he would do, what he would give, for his family.

Reggie reached across the table and grabbed Sam's hand, squeezing tight and holding on when he tried to flinch away. Forcing him to accept the contact, breaking the shell his harsh words, mostly aimed at himself, had built around him.

"Look at me, Sam." Her voice was soft but Dean heard, felt, the power in it. He didn't know how or why, but Reggie was somehow using her gift to compel Sam's attention. He watched his brother's head rise slowly, almost reluctantly, until he was staring at her across the table. He felt a soft tug, as though someone was pulling gently at him.

Sam felt reality shift as he looked into Reggie's tawny eyes. The focus of the world seemed to narrow, the room around him, the noise and the smoke and the bodies, they faded into the background of his consciousness. All that was left were the golden eyes, the golden spirit that was Reggie, and beside him, the strong, solid presence that was his brother. At first he resisted. He snarled and curled himself around the jagged hole, the wound the screams of a woman ruthlessly murdered by her own kind, driven mad by the darkness within, the darkness he shared, had torn in him. A dark mirror of the fate he feared for himself flung in his face. The terror of it, of seeing humanity twisted into its most loathsome and grotesque form, knowing and believing that that might happen to him, feeling more sure of it everyday, it was almost to much to bear, and Sam's alcohol blurred brain was reveling in the torture of this new, first-hand knowledge of what horrors awaited him. But Reggie wouldn't let him wallow in self-condemnation. Refused to allow him to reject her. When she spoke, her words held power he could not refute. She didn't promise him salvation, or tell him that he was fearing something they couldn't even be sure would happen. Her denial was personal, it came from her own certainty and Dean's, and so she was able to infuse it with an inalienable core of truth.

"There is no evil in you Sam. I don't have to think, I know. Dean doesn't have to wonder, _he knows_. We know _you_, Sam. We don't need to know anything else. Not what the demon may or may not have done to you on the night of your six-month birthday, not what the other psychic children may or may not be capable of. Humans may be the only animal capable of hate, but we're also the only one capable of love. We're beautiful because of our flaws. We're beautiful, _even_ when we're broken, because we continue to fight, to want to be something more. You want to be something more Sam, and the only thing inside you that is threatening your ability to win this fight and have the life you want, is your fear."

Reggie's eyes seemed to glow and her voice gathered intensity as she forced him to face the truth in her words, cracked apart the wall around his hurts and filled them up with her conviction and his brother's faith, until he couldn't hold anymore.

Dean watched Sam stare at Reggie as though transfixed, heard the words that she spoke to him, and recognized the feel of the power in her voice, the power of truth. She had used it on him once, a long time ago now it seemed, and it surprised him how unfazed he was by this sudden display of her ability. When he felt her pull at him, he gave without question, watch her weave a spell of tranquility over his troubled brother with words of comfort and sincerity, knew that the words were merely superficial decoration, that what she was really doing was somehow using what he _felt_ for Sam, what she _felt _for him, about him, to communicate with the younger Winchester in a far more effective and direct way then mere words ever could.

It amazed him that at a time like this, when she was so torn up inside, still bleeding from her own experience with the Waga's victim, haunted and unraveling, he'd seen it in her eyes not a minute previously, she could still give of herself. Find the strength and the optimism to console Sam, deny the brutality they had all witnessed and _mean_ it, because he needed her to. They needed her to. Sam needed something to turn back the waves of despair, and Dean needed Sam to be alright.

_She's like a bell_, Dean thought to himself. _Not matter what you hit her with, she always sounds sweet and true._

The sentiment drifted almost unnoticed through his mind, to be caught by his consciousness at the last minute.

_She's like a bell!?! _Dean demanded of himself. Shocked by the romantic whimsy of the thought, he cast a suspicious glance at the bottle of whiskey. Just how much of the stuff had he had?

He didn't have time to finish dissecting his uncharacteristic lapse into sentimentalism. The feeling of peace Reggie was projecting to Sam was strong enough to graze the edges of Dean's awareness, and he envied his brother the warm, heavy weight of it. The drowsy, drugging seduction of that blessed surety. He didn't recognize it at the time, but it was trust. And the same trust that touched Dean, in combination with the undeniable veracity of Reggie's words, rushed through Sam's over-taxed, vodka-saturated system. He relaxed into the sturdy credence her gift allowed her to provide. She could not lie, she had _made _him see, and with that assurance, Sam did what any sensible, exhausted, drunk person would do, he passed out.

"Oh for God's sake" muttered Dean in relieved exasperation as Sam slumped over the table.

Reggie sat back and exhaled slowly.

"We should go."

Dean hesitated, he could see that the warm, brave expression of reassurance she had worn to face Sam had crumpled from her features. She was pale and her eyes looked dead. She wasn't ready to go. As usual, she had healed everyone else, but not herself. Well, staying wouldn't fix her, and God knew, there was a part of him that wanted to get out of here before something happened or the caged hostility, the built up stress of the evening, of not being able to fight his enemies and the fury it generated inside him, exploded. But Dean didn't know what solution, other than the amber liquid in the bottle before her, he could offer to soothe the heartbreak, the damage done to her. So they would stay.

"No" he mumbled, slinging one of Sam's long arms around his shoulders,

"I'll get him out to the car. He'll be fine there for awhile."

For a moment Reggie thought about insisting that they leave but, truth be told, she wasn't nearly as drunk as she needed to be and for once, no matter how firmly her common sense told her she should stop drinking and they should leave now, before something she might regret happened, she just wasn't brave enough to face the thought of what dreams might come this night of all nights, without the cinnamon-hued cushion of the whisky to stand between her vulnerable mind and the warped, disfigured specters her unconscious imagination might spawn with material gleaned from the living nightmare she had endured. Worse, how could she possibly face waking up to find that the nightmare had been real? So she didn't argue with Dean as he hauled Sam up, just reached for the bottle and her glass.


	71. Chapter 71

AN: Hey everybody. Here's the next chapter. I'm just gonna take this opportunity to say thanks to everyone who has sent me well wishes and supports the story. To those of you who have expressed frusteration with the length, or lack of R/D action, I'm sorry you feel that way and, you are, of course, entitled to your opinion, but I have to believe that I know what I'm doing with my characters and follow the story I've created for them in my head. I hope you do stick around and that you decide it was worth it. Happy Reading.

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Dean poured all six and a half limp feet of Sam into the back of the Impala, taking care to tuck his brother's long limbs comfortably into the car's confines. Shutting and locking the door he paused, shooting a suspicious look around the dark parking lot, his hunter's eyes taking in the trees that encroached on the small clearing by the road where the Squirrel crouched in the shadow of the dense forest. Walking to the trunk, Dean lifted the lid and extracted a white wax pencil. Muttering under his breath about how Sam was going to scrub his baby until she shone when the sun came up, he carefully traced Devil's Traps on each of the four doors, each corner of the trunk, on the hood just above each headlight, and even on the roof, just for good measure. Standing back, Dean observed his handy-work, the white symbols made the car into a demon-proof lock box. Smiling in satisfaction, he headed back into the bar.

This time his eyes adjusted to the smoky atmosphere much more quickly. He could see well enough to make out the figure of the racer dressed in white, standing over Reggie's chair. Whatever Reggie said to the man was obviously not of an encouraging nature because he straightened and began to move away, but the look he cast back over his shoulder said that he wasn't about to give up, not yet. Dean gritted his teeth and told himself that the reason the man's attentions made him so irrationally angry, was because Reggie deserved to be left in peace to nurse her wounds, and that the killing rage that was suddenly spewing through his veins was the result of his frustration over his own galling ineffectualness, his inability to stop the Wers, or even to help Reggie and Sam deal with their pain, his inability to deal with his own.

Dean's feet were moving before is brain caught up with the intentions of his body, carrying him towards the racer. In his mind, his logic scrambled to catch up with the rest of him. He wasn't looking for a fight. He _wasn't, _he reminded himself sternly, reining in his anger. But as he neared the blue-eyed, blond haired, young hotshot, Dean could feel the tension coiling in his limbs. Reggie didn't need anymore stress and there were only a few sure-fire ways to deal with men of the type Dean had pegged the racer to be. His body language, his clothes, even the sneer on his face said that he was the kind of man that was driven by arrogant and often thoughtless pride. His overt, inflated sense of masculinity, telegraphed by the exaggerated swagger, the jutting jaw, belligerent glare (at this moment seemingly directed at an unoffending stuffed Moosehead, or maybe the world in general, it was hard to tell) and the flashy ivory leather said that this man had something to prove, not only to others, but far more dangerously, to himself.

He needed to show the world how tough he was, and Dean knew he would only respond to a very particular brand of reason. And if that didn't work, well, Reggie hadn't seen him come back in, he figured he could have the whole thing sorted courtesy of his fists before she was the wiser, if it came to that. But Dean suddenly, genuinely, hoped it wouldn't. He was abruptly tired, so tired, by the thought of a another fight. His heart was aching in his chest and tonight, after facing the baldly inhuman evil of the Waga, in spite of the animal fury that was still prowling through him, he didn't want to fight his own kind to satisfy it, no matter how insistent his basic urge to deal with the hated feelings of guilt and uselessness craved that physical outlet.

Stepping into the other man's path, Dean put out a hand to detain him. The racer paused and looked up from Dean's large hand on his shoulder into the hunter's face.

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder and were similar in size, though the racer was slighter. There was surprise in the blue eyes, and a trace of automatic aggression, but it was milder than Dean had expected, which gave him hope that a peaceful outcome would be possible.

"I don't want any trouble" Dean was quick to reassure him,

"But that girl you've got your eye on?"

The other man glanced at Reggie,

"What about her?"

_Here it goes_, thought Dean. There were a few things all male animals understood, and while violence was certainly first and foremost among them, possession was a close second in that universal, testosterone-driven language. He'd already internally vetoed the first option, as much because he knew it was the animal within himself that was itching to attack the other man; to seize on what was really only the suggestion of insult and fan rather than douse the flames it could so easily ignite. He wanted badly to bruise and bloody his knuckles against the other man's skull, wouldn't even object to receiving a little of the same himself, because maybe that ache would be able to drown the other which pulsed with unrelenting persistence in his chest. But unless he wanted to prove Sam right, he had to smother that bestial instinct. But that left him with only one option. The only non-violent way Dean could think of to side-track the man's interest in Reggie, was to convince him she was already taken.

"She's mine" said Dean.

_Bad choice of words_, he thought silently as he found himself swallowing convulsively against the snarl of triumph voiced by the primitive animal within when he spoke the them, even as he tried to reminded himself that he was just playing a part, that the words were meant as a deterrent to the other man's invasive interest, not a declaration of a real claim on Reggie.

_She doesn't belong to you._ He reminded himself.

_You don't deserve her._

But that didn't stop the surge of fierce pride and possessiveness from swelling in his chest. He could feel the waves of it crashing about inside him, filling him up and, despite his best efforts, it must have shown in his eyes. The other man stepped back out of his hold, wary now, considering, but still there.

"Really?" he challenged Dean,

'She doesn't act like it."

Well, the racer had him there, but Dean simply spread his hands, he wasn't about to engage in a debate with the other man.

"If you'd like, we can step outside and I'll prove it to you, but either way, I'd like you to leave her alone."

Dean kept his voice even and his manner unthreatening, he wanted to give as little an impression of challenging the other man as possible, leaving no doubt as to which of the two outcomes he preferred. Giving the racer's ego plenty of room, his tractability made it easy for the other man to avoid the fight without any feeling of loosing face.

The racer continued to look speculative, but Dean's territorial show seemed to have persuaded him, at least for the time being.

"Sure man" he backed away, hands out,

"As long as that's what the lady wants."

And he disappeared into the throng of smoke.

Though the racer's conditional deferral wasn't exactly what Dean had been hoping for, he decided to be grateful for small blessings and determined to let the other man's insincere promise of acquiescence stand for the moment. However, he was now convinced that getting out of the stuffy, grimy backwater bar asap, was advisable. There were too many unforeseen problems lurking in its dark depths.

Arriving back at the table, he dropped into the chair beside Reggie.

She raised golden eyes that were unnaturally bright, though whether from unshed tears or the alcohol he couldn't tell, to his face.

"How's Sam?"

"Sleeping it off." He responded.

"I don't suppose you're starting to feel that way inclined yet?" He couldn't stop the note of hope from creeping into his voice. He wanted to get her out of here and away from this. Somehow drowning her sorrows in shot after shot of whiskey, just didn't seem the right solution for Reggie, regardless of a lack of alterior options.

Unfortunately, she shook her head, denying his suggestion.

"I haven't had nearly enough yet. I won't" she added quietly, a shadow of hopeless dread in her voice,

"Not for this. But, that doesn't mean I can't go down swinging" and, toasting him with her glass, she tipped back yet another shot of Jameson's, rolling the empty tumbler between her fingers for a moment before setting it back on the table and reaching for the bottle. Dean hesitated, but reached out to intercept her hand. She flinched away from the contact and Dean knew without looking up that somewhere, the racer was watching.

Gritting his teeth, he retracted his hand and said,

"You've had an awful lot of that."

She cast him a vague smile,

"Hmmm, I can take a lot more."

Looking into her eyes, which despite their slightly unnatural brightness, were clear and their gaze direct, Dean believed it. Her speech was as crisp as ever, and while she was somewhat less loquacious than usual, what talking she did do still contained the usual quota of million dollar words.

Unaware of Dean's silent analysis, Reggie continued on her previous train of thought.

"It's entirely genetic of course." The glass rose and fell again,

"The extremity of my tolerance I mean." She gazed moodily at the bottle sitting before her,

"It's the height of irony really. All I want to do is get drunk, really good and sloppy, the kind of drunk where you just don't care anymore." She paused,

"I've never managed that before. Not that I've made all that many serious attempts, but still" she poured another shot,

"Oh no" Now her tone took on a mocking edge, but the slice of her sarcasm was self-directed.

"Not good, contentious, careful, _self-controlled_ Reggie. She never lets go, she never gives in. She's never _free_."

She looked up at him, eyes swimming, voice cracking with frustration and repression, with the effort of swallowing it all down. Not even the fire of the whisky made the task any easier, couldn't wash down the bile, clean the taste of defeat, of cowardice from her mouth.

Reggie knew that if she were really brave, she would have opened up to Dean, would have taken the risk that might save them both. But even now, she was too afraid, and the truth was, no matter how much liquor she imbibed, she never would. She never lost her deepest, emotional inhibitions, not even when she drank with her closest friends whom she trusted above everyone, not enough to tell even Cami the whole truth about herself, and she certainly wasn't going to tell Dean. Her precious self-control, or to call it what it really was, her cowardice, her weakness, she spat the truth at herself with scathing satisfaction, felt the blows land, the way the thoughts squeezed her heart and lungs, took vicious pleasure in defacing herself. She deserved it, but she hid her flaws too well for others to mete out the chastisement she was sure her cowardice merited, so she did it herself. On one level, Reggie knew that despite what she said to Dean, her bravado and nonchalance over the half bottle of whiskey she'd consumed, it was now swirling though her veins and casting a faint, golden-edged fog over her brain. It wasn't that she was out of control, not yet, and she knew she was right when she thought she'd never really abandon her fears and take the leap of faith she sometimes contemplated, but she was pushing a boundary. With a little more help, she still might do or say things she might heartily regret in the morning. But the same reckless flare of rebellion that had streaked through her directly after she'd broken her link with the Waga's victim crackled up inside her now, urging her on, to flout her own rules and damn the consequences, just this once.

Dean was taken aback when Reggie suddenly looked up from her drained glass, which she had been silently contemplating, and gave him a rather fierce smile, before splashing yet another measure of whiskey into the tumbler.

"Cheers" she saluted him, and drank it.

The silent flurry of activity which followed, where Reggie pounded back several additional shots, had Dean, who observed her quiet desperation with equally silent helplessness, reaching for the bottle himself.

_What the hell, _he thought bleakly.

_Can't get any worse._

The hot talons of the whiskey raking down his throat were welcome, little trails of fire through the darkness and the pain. And for a few moments there was only the companionable slap and slide of the bottle against the wood and the slosh of the sepia spirits in their glasses.

By his tenth shot, Dean could feel the edges of his vision fuzzing and his lips were numb. His thoughts seemed to take somewhat longer to form than usual, as though they had to float up through the pleasant amber haze that veiled his mind. He wasn't drunk, but he was getting there, fortunately, he was still sober enough to know that getting any further along probably wasn't a good idea, but not quite sober enough to remember why. Dean's hand contracted absently around the body of the bottle rather than releasing it as his brow furrowed in thought, so his head came up sharply when he felt the press of Reggie's fingers over his. He was quick enough to see the way she flinched at the unexpected contact and, to catch a flash of white from the corner of his eye. Narrowing his eyes, Dean saw that the white racer had drawn a little nearer. He was now lounging against the nearest corner of the bar.

_She doesn't act like it._ The other man's words echoed in his head.

_Shit! _Dean cursed silently as their minor verbal skirmish, and its less than satisfactory result, came back to him. Reggie certainly _wasn't_ acting as though she was his girl. In fact, she was back to acting like he was anathema, which he might have appreciated under slightly different circumstances, because God only knew what fourteen ounces of whiskey might do to his self-control, or what twenty-two might do to hers, but at the moment, it was a problem. A big problem, because the racer had friends, lots of them. Stone cold sober Dean would have trusted in his own ability to take him and enough of his cronies to convince the rest that crowding a Winchester woman was ill-advised, since it lead to tangling with Winchester men. Unfortunately, the other Winchester was off duty for the night, Dean really wasn't feeling up to a solo confrontation, and he doubted that Reggie was in any shape to back him up this time, though the memory of that night, when she had come back to rescue him from the goons outside the little dive in LA, made him grin in spite of everything. It would seem that she'd rather made a habit of it, saving him. Dean leaned in close to Reggie to share the reminiscence, and to explain the current situation to her. To tell her to quit yanking back her hand as though he'd burned her every time their fingers brushed, but of course, she jerked violently away the second his head neared hers, and jumped to her feet.

"Fuck!" This time Dean swore aloud as he saw the racer push away from the bar upon observing Reggie so obviously reject his rival's attention.

Dean's alcohol muddied brain struggled to find a peaceful solution to the new problem presented by the racer as he moved steadily towards the table he was sharing with Reggie.

"Hell" he muttered, before grabbing her hand.

God! It wasn't fair that he always smelled so good! Reggie thought irritably to herself as she gulped a mouthful of whiskey that tasted of peat smoke and aged oak. It burned pleasantly as it slid down her esophagus, but the problem was, she no longer needed it to heat the core of ice that had condensed inside her when she had felt death take the nameless woman by the roadside. It had melted at the first touch of Dean's hand, the subtle brush of his fingers against hers when the bottle of alcohol passed between them. It seemed she had finally found something that drowned out the echoing howl of despair that riddled her soul with fear and desolation. Dean. He was so bright to her eyes, his beauty and her own desire magnified by her desperation and highlighted by the warm, umber glow the whole world seemed to take on when viewed through the honeyed prism of the whiskey.

She could barely look at him, the big, rough hands that clutched the glass and the long, tanned column of his throat that was exposed when he threw back his head to swallow. Her own hands wanted to tremble and even more, to touch. Pinning her eyes to the table, Reggie took deep breaths and tried to curb the dangerous turn her thoughts had taken. _It's the alcohol._ She told herself firmly. _You would never even consider it if you were sober, which means, you'll seriously regret it if you do anything. Use your brain!_ She admonished herself, _If you can still understand that it's a bad idea, you should be able to exercise enough control not to act on it! _

Her body wasn't listening, it never did when it came to Dean.

_It would be wrong to use him that way_. She tried to reason with her conscience.

_He wouldn't mind_, promised another voice.

Preoccupied by the internal struggle between her carnal and common sense, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she turned her head to find Dean's face next to hers. So close she could smell the whiskey on his breath. Her instinct was to lean in and see if the liquor would be richer when mixed with his taste, so naturally, she did the opposite, wrenching back so swiftly she almost gave herself whiplash. Springing to her feet she was about to suggest that they should leave, and praying she would be able to keep her mouth shut and her hands to herself on the long ride back to the motel, when Dean seized her hand.

He hadn't meant to pull so hard and, without the whiskey to compromise her normally steady balance, she would likely have kept her feet in any case but, Dean did pull just a little too hard, and her surprise combined with the inebriant fist of the potent spirit she'd consumed, which hit her all at once as she quickly gained, and just as swiftly lost, her footing, sent the world tilting crazily on its axis and Reggie careening into Dean's lap.

"How _do_ we keep ending up like this?"

He had meant it to be a joke and a partial apology, a way of heading off the awkwardness and tension that must necessarily follow such a blatant reminder of the priest's closet as he righted her in his arms. The words, which should have been laced with irony, became a soft, genuine question reflecting the helpless surge of desire he knew was reflected on his face as their eyes locked, as he saw the matching awareness and memory explode behind Reggie's tawny eyes even as the same recollection, of the last time she'd found herself sprawled across him, worked a painful and potent transformation on his body. The warm, coy fingers of the whiskey were snaking through his brain, doing their best to throttle what was left of his reason, and doing a damn fine job of it, since he couldn't quite seem to remember, or even resister, anything that wasn't the warm, solid weight of Reggie in his arms, in his lap. And _Jesus! _The way her ass felt tucked snuggly against his growing erection was just _un-fucking_ real!And then she was tensing, shifting just a little, and Dean could practically feel his eyes cross. Attempting desperately to discipline his unruly cock and lusty thoughts, he sent a silent, plaintive, _why me?_ heavenward and tore his eyes from hers, trying to look anywhere but at the woman in his arms, and found himself once again looking at the racer.

His progress had stopped in mid-stride and Dean's brain felt cautiously forward through the golden mist of alcohol towards what he thought might actually be a good idea. If he could just explain to Reggie about the other man they could sit here for a few minutes, long enough to convince him that Reggie was indeed Dean's girl, and then make a quick and inconspicuous exit. Everybody's happy, no one gets their head bashed in with a tire iron…..That was of course, providing he could communicate all that to Reggie before she sprung violently off him, as he could already sense her muscles tensing to do and, that he could keep his hands to himself, even less likely.

"Maybe someone's trying to tell us something?"

Reggie propped her elbow on Dean's shoulder and rested her chin in her hand, her lips pursing in mock speculation. The unexpected rejoinder to his earlier question had Dean's head snapping around. At his response a faint blush rose on her cheeks and she looked dimly surprised at her own words.

Dean been wrong. Reggie hadn't been tensing to reject him. Her body had simply frozen as she fought to reign in the dizzying rush of forbidden pleasure that seeing and smelling and _feeling _Dean all around her, sent spiraling through her inebriated system. The impact with Dean's hard body had broken loose something inside her. Something daring and brazen and just this side of uncontrolled. It was fed by the whiskey's golden fire and the expression of surprise on his face. It made her feel curiously powerful and sent her to teeter somewhere on the edge between deliberation and impulse. Reggie looked up into Dean's hot eyes and felt something bright and sharp slink through her, something that made her want to play and push and test his boundaries, and not to worry about breaking her own. Of course the other voice was hardly silent, the one which said she was out of her mind and that she should be sparing both of them this awkward discomfort by getting the hell out of Dean's lap, but the alcohol had a way of distancing the immediacy of that need, that logic. It made her reason sluggish and unconcerned with anything more than the moment. So when Dean once again leaned in towards her, she didn't pull away.

He'd decided it was best to simply ignore the veiled innuendo of her previous comment. For the sake of his sanity if not her sensibilities, which he was sure would have been shocked, if not for the curtain of alcohol he could practically see swamping and cutting off her sense of emotional clarity. He tried to remind her that this wasn't a game, and that they weren't the only players.

"That man over there, in the white, the one who talked to you earlier? Do you remember?"

Dean tried not to fidget when, rather than acting as he'd expected and shying away from the contact, Reggie relaxed against him and held his eyes unerringly.

"Yes." There was a pause while Dean's brain tried to process her response, distracted as he was by the sudden intensity of her tawny gaze.

"Uh, yeah. He..,erhem" Dean cleared his throat as Reggie continued to stare.

"He's…..interested in you and I don't think he's going to go for a polite 'no thank you' and I'd rather not have to kick his ass so…" Pause,

"Itoldhimyouweremygirl, so he'd leave us alone. "

He rushed through the uncomfortable part and prayed she didn't get angry.

She didn't. She blinked slowly and, seeming to show only mild interest, cast a lazy look over her shoulder toward the racer.

"The one in that ridiculous leather jacket?" She asked.

"Hey" muttered Dean, offended,

"I wear a leather jacket."

"Hmmmm." Reggie nodded acknowledgement and, still looking at the other man, cocked her head to the side.

"That's true. But yours is different." She ran the collar of the coat under discussion absently through her fingers as she studied the racer. The simple action made Dean's heartbeat accelerate.

"Oh yeah?" He strangled out.

"Yeah." She answered, still stroking the leather.

"He's wearing an attitude, if you know what I mean. It's….calculated. With you" she turned back to him,

"You are the attitude. It's as natural for you to wear that coat as breathing but, you don't _need_ to in order to show how macho you are." She gave him a cheeky grin.

" It's like the car. Even though it's, let's use….ostentatiously masculine, shall we? It's not contrived, it's just, you." She finished with a shrug.

"Okay" said Dean, not exactly sure what to make of her easy, teasing demeanor, or whether he should be pleased or indignant over her assessment.

"Anyway," he gave himself a little shake and took hold of the hand at his throat, the slow glide of Reggie's fingers over the soft leather was driving him to distraction.

She didn't try to remove her hand from his.

"Anyway" Dean started again, trying not to focus on the way Reggie was now unabashedly watching his mouth.

"He wasn't convinced because you and I weren't, _aren't_," he corrected himself,

"Acting like a couple, so…"

"Why Dean Winchester!" Her smile was mischievous.

"You're not suggesting I, _play along_?" She asked with one eyebrow raised speculatively, leaning provocatively close to him as the last two words tripped suggestively from her tongue.

"Now that's not what I meant…exactly" Dean began, shifting away, only to lose the words on a sharp inhalation of breath when her fingers traced over his lips.

"No?"

Her tone said she didn't believe him as her small hand curved caressingly around his neck.

She stroked the same fingers, feather-light, up his cheek, raising her face so that it was level with his.

"Do you think this will convince him?" She murmured.

"Uuuhhh" Dean couldn't answer. He was utterly non-plussed by her behaviour. She moved even nearer and he couldn't stop himself from splaying one large hand between her shoulder blades, while the other crushed the arm of his chair in a death-grip. He applied no pressure, neither encouraging nor discouraging her advances, merely held her close.

He no longer looked for the racer, forgot to be worried about the other man's impressions and reactions. His eyes had darkened into a deep, burning beryl, and watched with helpless fascination as her face inched slowly forward. His brain ordered his eyes to shut, to close out the vision of Reggie's exquisitely kissable, full, pink mouth moving slowly towards his, but they didn't. At the last minute she turned to the side, allowing her lips to brush delicately along his cheekbone, the soft flesh catching slightly as it grazed his stubbled skin, before allowing them to come to rest by his ear. Dean turned his face into her hair and sucked in ragged lungfuls of air.

Her cheek pressed against his and her moist breath was hot on his neck when she whispered,

"Does that mean I get to bite your ear this time?"

"Holy shit!" The suggestion shouldn't have floored him so much but, Dean was taken wholly off-guard by this playful, impish version of Reggie. This innocent seductress with golden eyes that made unbearably hot promises.

Suddenly, it was if they were all alone, floating in a dark sea of grey smoke and soft, filtered light. It was all there behind the tawny veil of her eyes. The hitch of her breath, the way he'd felt her first little gasp, the first of those long, slow moans reverberate all the way to his bones. The way she'd looked the first time her body arched under his hands, and _sweet Jesus_, the way his name had spilled from her lips. The shudder worked its way through him slowly, leaving him oxygen starved and fucking _on fire_! All in a matter of seconds. It was as if life had become compressed. Everything was on fast-forward tonight, one wave of feeling following hard on the heels of another. Never really enough time to think or feel or process but, Dean felt the crest of this wave break with painful distinction, the moment when his body was slammed through yet another wall of emotion, to be caught and drowned in yet another pool of sensation, there had already been so many. Fear and anger, guilt and helplessness, grief and need. God, the size of it, the sheer magnitude of his want for her, it always shocked him whenever it actually slipped fully from the tight confines where he kept it shackled. And the first instinct, as always, was to fight it. He tried to throw is mind clear of his body, let the opening bars of Metallica's, Some Kind of Monster, play through his head as he silently chanted _Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm! _His failsafe failed, miserably.

He tried to drag air into his lungs but only managed to fill his senses with the scent of her. _Honey-suckle, heat and whiskey_. Christ! His head was actually spinning, the whiskey in his own system carrying his desire like a drug, and he could feel the sharp, razor-edged slide of it as it skittered and scrapped over nerve endings already feeling painfully raw and exposed. But it was easy too. To trade all that feral fury and painful ineffectualness for the burn of lust. That was part of the animal too, not so different really, from the wolf that was already stalking beneath his skin tonight. And it was easy to sink into the familiar bite of it. It wasn't far to fall, it was always there, this need, seething just below the surface……and he needed to stop, now.

Reggie might be able to play, but he couldn't, not about this. Not about her. It seemed he was going to have to rethink his strategy, because there was also still, indeed more so, the unnatural brightness of earlier, of intoxication. She didn't know what she was doing or saying, and most likely, she wouldn't even remember in the morning. And something inside Dean rebelled at the thought of what she was offering, even as another wildly urged him to take. He didn't want to be just a body for her. A handy place to put all of the fear and pain that had accumulated and spilled over, that had driven her to drink her judgment away. Sober she wouldn't want him and he'd been this route too many times himself, living in his skin so he could avoid the demons in his head and heart, to wish that for her, for them.

"It's time to go." Dean announced firmly, standing quickly and swinging Reggie to her feet beside him, driven by an urgency that no longer gave two shits what the racer thought or what he might do. Dean was suddenly a lot more worried about what _he_ might do, if he didn't get Reggie the hell out of here. Adrenaline was busily clearing the alcohol induced haze from his vision, both literal and metaphorical, and the hum from his blood, but not the heat. He wasn't sure there was anything that could. Tucking that worry away for another time, still holding Reggie by the hand, Dean hustled her toward the door, choosing the path that would take them farthest from the racer.

Reggie opened her mouth to protest when she found herself suddenly ousted from her warm, beguiling nest in Dean's lap and, being alternately pushed, jostled and generally dragged through the crowded bar, but all that came out was a short scream when the blond man in the white leather jacket suddenly sprang into their path and grabbed her arm. Dean didn't even miss a beat, he released the door handle he'd just taken hold of and unceremoniously plowed his fist into the racer's face, knocking the other man off his feet and forcing him to release his grip on Reggie's arm. It was just another quick, violent blip in the harsh, abbreviated arc of the night's wrenching events. The confrontation, or rather its avoidance, which had motivated so many of Dean's actions squashed hastily between two seconds, winding up no more than a peripheral footnote in the wild, graphically visceral course of the evening.

Without waiting to see if his assailant would get back up or if his friends would come to help him, Dean yanked open the door and pulled Reggie out into the night.

The now cold air hit her like a slap in the face, clearing some of the fog from her brain.

"Oh my God, Dean! What the hell…? What are you doing?" She cried as her head craned on her neck to look back toward the bar and the downed man even as her feet stumbled and tripped along the uneven pavement.

"_We,_ are getting the hell out of here." He responded, shoving her towards the Impala.

Behind them, the door of the bar banged open.

"In" hissed Dean as they reached the Impala and he jerked his door open and hit the locks.

"Oh…dear" Reggie whispered, looking back at the shouting, fist-waving mass of neon leather that had crowded out of the bar after them, and clamoring into the passenger seat.

Dean turned the key in the ignition and slammed the transmission into reverse.

"Wait, wait" Reggie's eyes looked a bit wild as she struggled to think clearly.

"You've been drinking, you can't drive!"

Dean glanced at the swearing mob of bikers and stepped on the gas, sending the Impala shooting in a broad, backwards arc which left them facing the road.

"_Not_ the most pressing of our problems" he responded grimly,

"We'd better hope to hell that they're too far gone to try and come after us because even my baby'll have trouble out-running those damn racing bikes."


	72. Chapter 72

A/N: Hi guys. sorry for the long break. To make a long story short, my roomates and I have two cats and one of them got really sick. We spent two weeks following this really strict and difficult schedule of feedings and medicating her where none of us could leave the house for more than two hours at at time and basically we all wound up wanting to kill each other. And then it turned out she'd been mis-diagnosed, was terminal, and she had to be put down immediately. It was sad and hard and horrible, and for awhile I just didn't feel that much like writing. And then when I did start again, all that came out were long, angsty ballads about cat death so, yeah. Took a bit to get back in the saddle. Anyhoo, hope you enjoy this chapter, I'm off to reply to all of your wonderful reviews, which, might I add, were really nice to read when I was feeling down. Thanks a lot for the support guys.

luv Artemis

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Reggie closed her eyes and fought focus her thoughts as the Impala bumped and skidded along the uneven back roads of Hot Springs County. In her forefront of her brain reason was waging an epic battle with alcohol, but in the background, her thoughts were still tick, tick, ticking away like they always did. Like clockwork, only, not so tidy as usual because they weren't tied up and strung together in a sensible line the way she was used to and the gears were clicking out of time. Ideas were just sort of freewheeling through a mind that'd been forced too wide open to be worried about what was supposed to stay in and what was supposed to stay out, or that some thoughts are supposed to come before others. The straightjacket of logic that insists on a certain order of action and reaction, that two plus two must always be four, and so often ignores the real for that imagined world of regulation careful categorization, had come off. For example, she wasn't worried about Dean's driving anymore because, while her rationale wanted to agonize and fret over the fact that he'd been drinking, her instinct _knew,_ that Dean was more at home behind the Impala's wheel than most men would be in their own living rooms, and since her reason was otherwise occupied, she was able to accept that indeed, driving didn't seem to concern Dean in the least. In fact, he barely seemed to be paying attention to the road before him, yet even where the pavement had been slicked with mud by uneven rainfall, the car remained in perfect control, so it didn't concern her either. No, most of Dean's attention was on the rearview mirror, as he watched with narrowed eyes for signs of pursuit and chose turns at random to throw off anyone who might be lingering beyond the scope of his vision.

It wasn't long before Reggie was utterly lost, she could only hope that Dean had some inkling of where they were and soon, even that apprehension faded away. Without the potent motivation of a looming threat, the momentary clarity that Reggie's brain had managed to grasp was quickly fading back into an amber haze. It felt as though her consciousness was sinking into a viscous, golden syrup, which effectively drowned her rational. It seemed her body was not as readily able to throw off the effects of intoxication as Dean's.

_That's because he's had more practice, s_aid something snarky inside.

Rational Reggie wanted to tell snarky Reggie to shut up, but it was too late. The tawny lake closed over her head and then, she wasn't really thinking about anything any more. She tried, but it was no use. All her thoughts seemed to be encased in beautiful golden bubbles which slipped from her grasp and floated away before she had a chance to think them. Except for when one of the illusive, glowing spheres that encapsulated her splintered intellect occasionally popped and dropped a random thought into her lap.

Humming the theme from the Thundercats cartoon under her breath, she thought about how much Sam looked like a puppy all curled up in the back seat and how his floppy hair needed a trim. She thought about how pretty the pattern the raindrops made on the windshield was, leaning forward to trace it with a lazy fingertip. She thought about how big Dean's hands looked on the wheel.

It had to be said that on some level, it would appear that her plan for the night had actually worked, because she did not think about werewolves, or dying, or darkness, or pain.

Instead, she tried desperately to stifle her giggles because they drew withering looks from Dean, who clearly couldn't see how absolutely hysterical it was that he was wearing jeans. Jeans made her think of cowboys, which, obviously, made her think of Yosemite Sam, which made her picture Dean with a long, red handlebar moustache shouting,

"Ha mule! Ha!"

Albeit, bouncing along in a ricketier version of the Impala instead of on a swaybacked donkey.

Which was pretty damn funny, in her opinion.

_I think I spy a theme_, she chortled to herself.

_Clearly being drunk causes some sort of mental regression, _she mused, noting her drunken shelf's predilection for material taken directly from her childhood diet of Saturday morning cartoons.

Idly and without much interest, she observed the discombobulating effect the alcohol coursing through her system was working on her brain.

She then laughed so hard at her own use of the word discombobulating and the look it brought to Dean's face when she blurted it aloud, she felt sure she would be sick. That was, until the next time she looked at his face.

The fear struck her like a snakebite, sudden and vicious. The thick caramel thrall of the whiskey becoming an oppressive, sallow prison which ensnared and exposed her mind, and she could feel the insidious slide, the venom that was doubt, pump through her in a wild rush. The freezing, paralyzing terror of rejection branched into her veins leaving her feeling brittle and fragile. Irrational dread obliterated the golden bubbles and smashed the harmless, cartoonish quality the world had taken on. The wall Reggie was so careful to keep between her vulnerable mind and heart and the assault of her insecurities, shattered.

Dean looked angry.

Telling herself to stay calm and fighting the sickening tremble of panic that shivered deep in her belly, she tried to reach out to him with her gift, but it was exhausted from the enormous strain of first channeling the spirit of the dying woman, and then battling Sam's demons. Neither her mind nor body could summon the energy to enact the kind of precise focus that would have been required to tap into the faint, residual reserves of the core of her power. It was never _gone. _It couldn't be used up or depleted to the point where it couldn't be replenished, but like her physical body, that would take time and rest, and she'd had neither. Without it she was blind and desperate.

Her delicate ego survived largely because she didn't have to _wonder_ how people felt and still, only the certainty of _knowing_, was enough to keep the ultimate suspicions she harboured about her own unworthiness at bay. But tonight, there was only empty blackness when she reached out for Dean, instead of the vibrant tapestry of green's and blues and golds she'd come to know so intimately, and it frightened her. She felt adrift and suddenly very unsure. Even the absence of the ever-present slices of midnight-coloured guilt and the garish reds of a thousand shades of anger that bled into sharp, brilliant strokes of pain, was disconcerting, because even though they hurt her as they hurt him, they were also a part of the unique and reassuringly familiar _feel_, that to her, was Dean. A part of the feeling that had slowly and inevitably come to mean safety, security, and it was beyond her reach.

Reggie's small white teeth sank deeply into her bottom lip, pressuring the soft rose flesh into stark white as her tired, inebriated mind was forced to rely on deciphering Dean's body language to determine his mood. Her eyes darted over him, a quick, covert assessment that anticipated her burgeoning misgivings. Dean's fingers were clenching and unclenching where they rested around the Impala's wheel and a muscle in his jaw was ticking rhythmically. His eyes were dark and he stared straight ahead at the road, never once glancing her way.

Something small and child-like and terrified of alienating the people she cared about because she _knew_ her own uselessness and stupidity made it inevitable, awoke in the dark recesses of her heart, and a familiar voice rang coldly in the hollow darkness that followed in the wake of that thought.

_He's mad at you, _taunted the voice.

_And how could he not be? It's all your fault. You could have gotten everybody hurt or worse. You were weak. You got drunk. You were stupid. Tonight wasn't just hard for you, you know. And you just couldn't handle it so you had to go and make it worse for everyone else. _

_Oh God! You threw yourself at him when you promised you wouldn't._

_He got in a fight to protect you._

_It's all your fault._

Trying to swallow a whimper, unable to master the doubts which constantly plagued her and which were now no longer smothered by the determined strength of her well disciplined mind, Reggie curled her body into the far corner of the front seat and did her best to make herself as small and invisible as possible, biting her knuckles to trap the sobs that suddenly threatened to pour out in a ragged, wordless litany of violent dismay and need.

Ohgodohgod! What if he never forgave her?

One terrified, incoherently motivated fear stumbled into another as the floodgates which held back the suffocating blackness of a lifetime of rejection and confusion, guilt and inadequacy, were smashed off their hinges, the guardians of common sense and resolve already driven from their posts by the rampant onslaught of the whiskey, leaving Reggie stripped of her defenses. There was no escape. Running from her new demons had only left her more vulnerable to the old.

_Don't let him see you cry, s_he thought, desperately blinking back tears,

_It will only make him angrier._

_You're trouble. You're always causing trouble. What good are you? Look what you've done,_ the voice in her head berated her mercilessly.

_Just shut up and stay out of the way, if you can even managed that, _it spat

If she'd been just a tiny bit more lucid, just slightly less terrified, or perhaps, if Dean had meant slightly less to her, she might have been able to see that somehow, there had been a hemorrhage between past and present. That it was no longer all about Dean. But Reggie was far too busy scrambling, with pitiful, eager vehemence, to comply with the voice's harsh demands, to placate the twisted monster that lived inside her, to grasp that pivotal detail.

Dean didn't see Reggie nodding vigorously in silent answer to a question no one had asked, or the silver trails left on her cheeks by the two tears she hadn't been able to hold back, because he was concentrating on the road and trying not to look at her, since he couldn't face the accusation he was afraid he might see in her eyes.

He'd sworn he wouldn't let it happen again, and while it certainly hadn't gone as far as last time, the simple fact was, he'd fucked up. He was always fucking up. It seemed inevitable. Hadn't he told her that he could control himself? That she could let go and she would still be safe with him? That she could trust him to take care of her.

And what had he done? She been forced into abandoning her inhibitions by a desperate need to escape the horrific reality of the life _he'd dragged_ her into, and instead of protecting her, he'd let them get into a situation where she was at risk, Sam was at risk, and he was at risk, because he couldn't keep his upstairs brain on the job and, in fact, had become a threat to her himself. He could deny it all he liked, but five more minutes of her sensual teasing and drunk or not, he'd have dragged her outside and taken her rough and dirty against the side of some fucking goddamned, godforsaken biker bar in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain! Even now the thought of it made his pants tighten. Dean gritted his teeth and stared into the dark nothingness on the other side of the windshield with harsh intensity. At least he no longer felt the need to check over his shoulder every three seconds. It looked as though the bikers hadn't managed to tail them. It was about damn time something had gone his way. This would make the first time tonight.

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"It's about fricking time" Dean snarled to himself as the dubious beacon of the sign reading "Silver Springs Motel", with both r's and the second s burnt out, finally peaked through the curtain of relentless rain to reward his tired and straining eyes. It had been nearly an hour since Dean, Reggie and Sam had made their impromptu escape from the Drunken Squirrel. They'd been driving ever since because, as a result of his evasive maneuvers, Dean had gotten lost, twice. Not that he'd ever admit it.

"We're here" he growled, a little louder so that Reggie could hear him as the Impala bumped into the motel's parking lot. He wasn't even sure if she was still awake. He'd barely glanced at her during the extended ride, as guilt over his actions dug ever deeper claws into him. And to make matters worse, she'd been as quiet and withdrawn as he. Her face turned away, her body curled defensively into the opposite corner of the seat, as far from him as possible.

_Shit!_ He cursed with silent vehemence as he thrust open his door with unnecessary force.

"Goddamnit!"

He cursed again, this time out loud, already soaked by the time he opened the back, passenger side door to regard his brother's slack face. Sam was as comatose as he'd been when Dean had first hauled him out to the car and with his luck, Reggie probably wasn't in much better shape. Sam had almost eighty pounds on her and she'd had three times as much to drink as him. With that thought running through his head, Dean was therefore surprised to hear Reggie's door creak open behind him. He risked a quick look over his shoulder and, not seeing much other choice, tossed her his keys.

"Go open the door will you" he gritted curtly, voice vibrating with irritation. He didn't think to be anything other than grateful when he heard her splashing her way through the puddles towards their room. Wasn't looking and so didn't see the furtive, uncharacteristic speed with which she scurried to do as he asked, might not have noticed even if he had seen, to distracted with the problem of trying to lug Sam's limp body out of the backseat and into the room.

Grunting under the dead weight, _Christ_! but Sam weighed a solid _ton_ like this, Dean adjusted his brother's unconscious bulk across his shoulders and staggered towards the light Reggie had turned on to glow beyond the open door in the distance. It was probably only about thirty feet but to Dean, it felt like thirty miles.

Groaning and swearing a blue streak under his breath as he finally dragged Sam over the threshold and into the room, he barely made it the final five steps to the bed where he unceremoniously dumped his brother in a tangle of inert limbs. Sinking down beside the bed and resting his back against it while he caught his breath, Dean heard Reggie shut the door. He breathed deeply with his eyes closed and didn't notice that she hadn't moved away from the door. Didn't see the way she was fluttering uncertainly at the edge of the room and wringing her hands, watching him warily from behind distressed golden eyes that still shined with the false brilliance of intoxication.

_He won't even look at me!_ The thought held an edge of hysteria as Reggie's whiskey-soaked mind struggled to find a way to advert this disaster she saw looming. To hold onto this person who meant so much to her. Not to loose him too.

Dean sat still and focused on the pleasure-pain of feeling his lungs expanding and stretching muscles in his chest he'd forgotten he'd bruised while he'd been eating dirt to avoid the Waga. For a moment the memory of claws in the moonlight and the sound of screams he couldn't stop invaded his mind. It had only been a handful of hours ago, God, how much had happened since then? And who the hell could have believed it would have gotten _worse_ form that point! Dean decided to retreat back into the small, thought-free vacuum of time physical exertion had brought him until he had something, _anything,_ else to think about. For example, how uncomfortable he felt was fast becoming suitably distracting. His clothing was drenched through and the wet weight of clammy denim and cotton were chaffing at his skin. His feet were freezing and squelching in his sopping boots, cold water was dripping out of his hair into his eyes and worse, down the back of his neck, like frigid, ghostly fingers.

Groaning and climbing to his feet, Dean stood over an equally soggy Sam and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Before he could clean himself up, he was going to have to get Sammy undressed and dry, before the stupid Sasquatch caught pneumonia or something. Grumbling and bending down, Dean reached for one of Sam's boots.

"Please don't be mad at me."

It was a whisper that Dean barely heard at first, distracted as he was by the snarl of laces adorning his brother's boot, his attention called more by the trace of pleading desperation in the sound than the words…..

Dean's head snapped up so he could gape at Reggie as Sam's still-booted foot slipped from his hand to hit the ground with a heavy _thump._

The words were so unexpected, so shocking, as was the appalled look on Reggie's face as she clamped both hands over her mouth in horror-struck dismay at her own words, as her meaning slammed home with delayed force. Feeling like he'd just been dealt the worst sucker punch of his life, for a moment, Dean couldn't do anything but stare as his brain scrambled frantically to catch up with the intensity of the emotion that was reflected in her eyes.

"I'm…I'm-m-m sorry" she stuttered out, the words seeming to force themselves out from behind her unwilling, bloodless lips.

"Please….._please_……."

The words trailed off into a hopeless whisper and she adverted her eyes, turning her head and looking down, whole body shuddering with the effort to repress something he couldn't name, and there was something so young and terrified sounding in her voice.

His heart constricted sharply in his chest. Dean searched his memory wildly, trying to recall the incident that had Reggie reduced to a frightened, quivering child begging him to forgive her for some heinous crime or insult she seemed sure she had committed. And then he knew, because he could see, behind the whiskey-bright eyes, the ghosts that were dogging her. Nothing, she'd done nothing. She didn't have to.

Well, he'd said he wanted to know about the past that haunted her. But not like this. This horrible, garbled frenzy of fear that rampaged unchecked, freed by the dizzying, destructive power of the alcohol _he'd_ let her consume. This poisoned wound inside her that seemed to touch everything, every feeling, every relationship, no matter how she tried to smother it, and while he knew that the booze and the trauma of the day were mostly accountable for the harrowing display, this gut-wrenching vulnerability and need, it was always there. And he wasn't prepared for this unexpected exposure. This wasn't some small chink in Reggie's well forged armour through which he was catching a glimpse of the raw turmoil that swirled beneath, it was a wide, clear window into her pain, and looking at it devastated him because he did know, knew that kind of desolation that was so all-encompassing that it manifested in a paradox, coals made of ice that contrarily both burned and froze the soul, containing their opposite so completely that there was nowhere to turn for relief. What he didn't know was that her entreaty and the fear that motivated it, were the nearest thing to a declaration of _that_ feeling that was hovering between them, as Reggie ever came. For her, fear and love were inextricably linked. To know love was to know the kind of fear twenty-three years of seeing what this thing, this emotion, could do to you. It was a weapon that punished the totality of a person, mind, body and soul, like no other.

"Reggie." Dean took a step forward, Sam forgotten behind him, his eyes fixed on her small, trembling body, but stopped abruptly when she cowered away against the wall. He could see that even though she was no longer making any sound, her lips were still silently shaping the frantic but despairing petition of apology.

_I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to._

And Dean wondered how much of her life Reggie had spent seeking forgiveness and feeling responsible for what was not her fault.

"Jesus baby, what did he do to you?" he murmured, his voice gravelly with shocked remorse and sorrow, even as he edged a tiny bit closer.

"Hey" he soothed, spotting the wild, almost animal glimmer of fear in her eyes.

"It's just me" he cajoled in a whisper, inching forward, willing her to know him, to hear him and believe. God, he didn't know what to do, or what to say, to fix her and he wanted to help. To make it all go away.

Dean cursed himself but didn't even think of retreating in the face of her anguish, even though he couldn't imagine his pitiful offerings being enough to pull her back to him. Dean had been well and truly drunk enough times in his life to know how easily the past could have become tangled with the present, everything squeezed and mashed together by the homogenizing fist of the whiskey, all the walls the mind used to keep everything inside a person sorted and tidy just, dissolving away. Allowing some random thing, what it had been he didn't even know, to ignite this extreme and unfounded fear. An old fear. An old pain. She was projecting someone else's apparently inalienable discontent and disgust with everything she offered, everything she was even, onto him.

No prizes for guessing who.

He was seeing the effect of the damage Daniel Thorpington had done to his eldest daughter, but he couldn't imagine the process by which this kind of hurt had been inflicted, the length of the torture Reggie must have endured. Dean's eyes darkened, but he was damn well seeing the results, and all he could think was that if the fucker's luck held, Dean would never meet him. He marveled at the strength it must take to swallow this down and not only survive but _live_, with this crawling inside you. And that was something he did know about. Survival, in spite of all the odds. And he knew about need, about needing and being needed. It was the one thing he was good at, the only thing. When his family needed something, Dean provided. That's who he was, that's what made _him_ worthwhile. And, in spite of the all the lies that had shaped his life, he was good at the truth too, because he'd always made his own. So he told her, and didn't notice that she'd crept into a category that until the day he'd met her, had only ever included three people. Well, two people now, and two ghosts.

"Reggie, I'm not mad at you. Really baby. It's all right, you're safe. I'm here and you're safe with me, remember."

And just like when he told Sam it was all going to be okay, it _was_ the truth, because Dean would _make_ _it_ the truth.

The words, almost a plea themselves, sounded lame to his ears but, with Reggie, it was always more about what you felt than what you said, and even though she hadn't been able to find him when she'd reached for him earlier, Dean somehow managed to find her, without even realizing that he was looking.

He watched, still siding ever closer, as her inebriated mind processed his words. Saw her shudder sharply and sigh, not knowing he was witnessing the moment when his sweet concern and fierce protectiveness speared into her, curling warm and gentle fingers around her aching heart.

It was a bit like watching someone wake up from a dream, slow and sudden at the same time.

And then it was over, the odd glitter going out to be replaced by a sort of dazed confusion as the over-sensitive, whiskey-saturated switch in her brain flipped once again. Her fear and desperation cut off by his simple words and oh-so-complicated feelings, as quickly as they'd been triggered.

"Dean." Reggie's voice was ragged but a little stronger, more coherent, as though the dark energy of inebriation that had oozed inside and authored her chaotic plunge into the disconsolate past, had been consumed by the violent process of feeling it. Leaving her to deal with the more superficial remnants of over-indulging.

"Hmm" Dean hummed affirmation without words in answer, closing the last of the distance between them, breathing a silent sigh of relief when she let him.

She looked up into his eyes, her sodden hair hanging in wet ropes down her neck and plastered to her face.

"My foot is wet."

And it was over, just like that. Dean laughed out loud in relief.

"I imagine they both are" he replied, smiling down at her.

"You did walk through a few puddles."

Her brow furrowed,

"Then it's the puddles' fault" she said in a voice that was both petulant and defensive.

Dean blinked.

"Uh, yeah." He nodded in agreement.

"It's definitely the puddles' fault."

She waited a beat, looking at him expectantly.

Then,

"My foot is wet" she repeated.

"Right" Dean acknowledged the unspoken demand and hid a grin at her proprietary tone.

"Sorry sweetheart, let's see if we can't do something about that" he murmured, sinking down to kneel in front of her.

Sudden warm engulfed her ankle were Dean wrapped a large hand, giving a gentle tug, encouraging her to place one small foot on his bended knee.

Dean barely suppressed a laugh when Reggie gave a sharp gasp and threw out an arm to steady herself against the wall, and then glared down at him accusingly. It seemed the whiskey was still having an adverse affect on her balance as well as her mind.

Pulling apart the wet laces, he yanked off the drenched canvas running shoe and her equally saturated sock, before replacing her foot on the ground and reaching for the other. This time she leaned forward and braced her hands on his shoulders, small fingers curling into the wet cloth, seeking the reassurance of the resilient heat beneath, while he divested her of the rest of her offending footwear.

"Now" he sighed, regaining his feet.

"Let's see about the rest of you."

"Ummmm, okay" she agreed, blinking rapidly, and Dean could see her struggling to understand and process what she knew should have been simple concepts but were still being rendered foggy by the remnants of alcohol.

"We need to see about the rest of me, because I'm wet." She explained it aloud, as if that would make it easier to grasp, and looked at him for confirmation.

"You sure are" he agreed, taking in the basic cotton tee-shirt and the way the water had plastered it to her body. His eyes darted ceiling-wards as he tried not to notice the way her nipples were protesting the cold and the wet.

"And drunk" This was said with a considerable amount of self-deprecating consternation.

"That too" he agreed, looking down again, careful to keep his gaze trained on her face this time.

"But it's not a crime honey" he hastened to add, lest his agreement somehow trigger a relapse into the dark shadows from which she had just emerged.

Leaning her head forward so that it rested lightly against his chest and letting out a quiet groan, she muttered almost to low for him to hear,

"Maybe it should be. My head is killing me."

Dean snorted,

"Sweetheart, you drank enough tonight to put a three-hundred pound trucker under the table. The fact that you're even still standing defies the laws of nature. And gravity" he added quickly as she sagged against him.

Dean judged the distance to the bathroom and decided it would just be easier to carry her. Turning so that her could hook his elbow under her under her knees, he scooped her small frame into his arms.

"Ohhhh" Reggie groaned again, putting a hand to her head.

"Tell me if you think you're going to throw up" he said, his long legs eating up the short journey into the washroom.

"I never throw up!" The horrified reply was whispered against his neck and Dean couldn't help but grin at the stubbornness buried beneath the denial.

The small bathroom attached to their room was as shitty as the rest of the motel. Peeling paint and cracked plaster flaked off walls so close together the tiny cubicle was barely big enough to accommodate the width of Dean's shoulders. Turning around with Reggie in his arms so that he could deposited her gently on the edge of the tub was damned complicated, but he managed, just barely.

When he got her positioned he took a moment to note that the one good thing about the miniscule nature of the bathroom, was that the toilet was so close to the tub, Reggie could reach it from her current perch with ease.

Reggie blinked hard against the lights that were whirling behind her eyelids and tried to make the faded pink wall of the motel bathroom come into focus before her bleary eyes. She leaned her head against the cool tile of the wall and ordered her stomach to settle.

"_I never throw up_" she repeated obstinately and heard Dean laugh from somewhere above her. Squinting and tilting her head to see him, she tried to muster a glare. It fell a little short of withering, but Dean gave her full points for effort.

"Well, you might not" he agreed,

"But Sammy's sure as hell gonna. Pro'lly not til morning though, Thank God" he amended reflectively,

"Kid never could hold his liquor."

He looked down at where Reggie was balancing on the edge of the tub.

"You gonna be okay if I go get something for you to change into?"

Once again rolling her head to the side, so as not to deprive herself of the support of the wall, who ever knew her skull was so heavy? Reggie gave a minute nod.

"Pajamas" she mumbled as he turned to go.

"And my toothbrush!" the addition was faint but insistent.

"Your toothbrush!?" Dean demanded turning back.

Reggie nodded,

"Do you have any idea how much sugar there is in alcohol?" she asked the wall in front of her.

"No, but I'll bet you do" Dean chuckled as, shaking his head, he walked back into the main room,

Her bag was sitting at the end of the far bed and Dean snatched the first garment that came into his hand and, after rummaging for a moment in the side pocket for the toothbrush, she'd only send him back if went without it, he was halfway back to the bathroom before he realized what he was holding. It was his shirt, the black cotton one he'd lent her in Sulfur, the first time he'd touched her. He hadn't known she'd kept it. Running his thumb over the worn material and biting back a groan at the thought of her wearing nothing beneath it but her fragrant skin, Dean berated himself savagely.

_That's the kind of thinking that got you here!_ He shouted at himself.

_Won't you ever learn……._ And then, _Oh God! How am I ever going to get her out of those clothes without touching her?!_

Luckily, Reggie seemed to be feeling slightly steadier by the time he returned, and maybe she sensed his jittery anticipation or caught the hot looks he couldn't disguise from the corner of her eye, or maybe she had her own reasons but, after allowing him to help her towel dry her hair, she told him, just unsteadily enough that he wasn't sure if he should believer her, but given the facts, wasn't sure he was in a position to argue, that she could manage just fine on her own and, shut the bathroom door in his face. Dean wasn't sure if he was disappointed or grateful but decided to take the opportunity to get his brother undressed and changed, because it seemed that in spite of everything that had happened he wasn't going to be able to trust himself to sleep in the same bed with Reggie, and after all, even though it seemed like a million years ago rather than just this morning, they had agreed that tonight, she should sleep with Sam.


	73. Chapter 73

AN: Hey all. Too tired right now to explain where the heck I have been lately. But a belated Happy New Year to all. Thanks for all the reviews, hello to new reivewers, and I will respond to all reviews asap. Enjoy.

luv Artemis

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Keeping one ear trained toward the bathroom, Dean muttered to himself as he maneuvered Sam's body on the bed until he could begin removing his brother's wet clothing. It was an old routine he fell into easily, even though it had been years since he'd done it regularly. As he struggled with the thick, water-logged material of Sam's wool sweater and the problematic logistics of propping up the dead weight of his brother's torso so it could be removed, he remembered when this had been a lot easier, when Sam had been so much smaller and Dean had still been the "big brother" in the literal sense.

Dean grimaced and shook his head, he remembered the day when that had changed too. It had kind of snuck up on him. One day he'd just turned around to find that not-quite-fifteen -year-old Sam had shot up, seemingly overnight, and was suddenly within an inch of being eyeball to eyeball with Dean's eighteen-year-old self. But in a way, Dean had been glad, he'd been waiting without realizing it, for Sam to catch up. It was when they'd stopped being just brothers, and become friends as well. Dean sighed, it had probably been the best time in his life, the year leading up to Sam's fifteenth birthday. For the first time in a long time, Dean and Sam had been going to the same school and neither Winchester had had to be the odd man out, because they'd been a team, a pair. When the fighting between Dad and Sam had still been at the slow burn stage, before it had all exploded.

_Shit._

Dean shook his head again as he automatically lifted the covers and tumbled Sam's long, limp, now dry, frame beneath them, reliving how it had all changed. He'd graduated high school, and the only reason he'd hung around long enough to do that was because his Dad had insisted, and nothing had ever been the same. At first he'd been thrilled. No more books or teachers or principle's office, or stupid, lame schoolwork to distract him from the _real_ world, from hunting with his Dad. He'd been so happy to work side by side with his father, no more staying home or missing out on the good stuff.

No more worrying about what might happen to his Dad without Dean there to back him up.

But the more time Dean and John had spent hunting, the less Sam had wanted to hunt at all. The more time he'd spent buried in his books, until it had seemed like the only time Dean ever really saw him was when John dragged Sammy's stubborn ass with them because a particular hunt really needed three, or there was some of that advanced Latin mumbo-jumbo that tripped so naturally off the kid's tongue that needed doing. And then when they'd get home, usually blooded and pretty beaten up, they'd go at each other like a couple of wounded animals, Sam censerous and sarcastic and John….Well, Dean wasn't sure what his Dad had felt when he'd fought with his younger son about the life he'd raised them to lead. The life Sam was rejecting, but they'd keep at it until Dean broke it up. And then he'd go from one end of the house to the other, stitching up his father's split brow in the stony silence of the kitchen and forcing a sulking Sam to let him bandage his bruised ribs in their bedroom. But he'd always managed to fix it, cause that was his job, to look out for his family, hold them together, and he'd never even conceived that the day would come when they would break, when he would fail. But it had.

They hadn't even been hunting so, with no new fuel for their seemingly unending contests of wills, Dean had felt it was safe to leave Sam and Dad alone and head into town for some company that was less ornery and more…..accommodating. Preferably of the blonde and leggy variety. He'd come home to the little rental shack just outside of Paris, Kentucky where they'd holed up for a few weeks, to find Sam sitting on the sagging stoop with his bulging duffle beside him and a single sheet of paper crumpled in his fist. He'd been dry-eyed and still furious over whatever had been said that Dean hadn't been there to hear, to stop before it got out of hand, to smooth over. He'd stood up as the Impala had pulled into the drive and Dean had felt his stomach drop out of his body when he got a look at Sam's face.

It'd been a beautiful evening. Indian Summer in late August, lots of thick golden sunshine spilling over the swaying field of honest-to-goodness Kentucky bluegrass that stretched away from the road and the house, a carpet of feathery indigo shadows. There had been crickets chirping in long grass stirred by fragrant wind. It had seemed so peaceful, but that was because the storm had all been on the inside. Inside of Sam, but Dean could feel it. He remembered being cold, freezing even. He'd gotten out of the car and walked over to his brother, smiled. Sam hadn't smiled back.

He remembered thinking that it was like Sam was already gone. Already far away from Kentucky and Dean, and it was the kind of distance Dean couldn't measure with miles. He was too far ahead for Dean to catch up, to even try. Sam hadn't even let him make an attempt. Dean knew now that it was because Sam hadn't wanted to make him choose…….Dean's mouth twisted in a grimace. Or rather, because Sam had already known that in Dean's soldier's brain, there was no choice to make, because there was no other world to escape to, that he'd never bothered to look for another, or at least, so Sam had always believed. So Sam still believed.

Sam had been facing away, his tall, gangling figure stiff, the sea of grass, turned to burnished amber by the setting sun, spread at his feet, and he'd said the words. And even though, by that point, Dean had been expecting them, known the look in Sam's eyes, a look he'd never seen before, spelled the end of his world as he knew it, they'd still struck him like a sledgehammer, driving the breath from his body.

"_Dad said that if I went, I should stay gone. So I'm going and"_

He'd paused momentarily there, looked back at Dean, looked hard, so he could be sure that Dean would understand what he said next,

"_I'm not coming back."_

Then he'd looked away again, proffered the abused paper. It was his acceptance letter to Stanford. Their enthusiasm to have Sam and his agile brain practically leaping off the page that said things like, "So glad to welcome you to our academic family", and "Full Scholarship".

Dean had thought he should be proud, or angry. With Dad? With Sam? But he was numb. He thought he'd nodded, handed the paper back.

He'd driven Sam to the bus station in Lexington, watched as his little brother had bought a one-way ticket away from him, from the life he knew, going where Dean couldn't, and Sam knew he wouldn't, follow. They'd waited for the bus in silence because Dean _just didn't know what to say, _and Sam seemed to think there was nothing left to be said.

And then the bus had rolled into the station with a squawk of poorly tended brakes that had made Dean wince, the doors had opened with a hissing hydraulic sigh, and there wasn't time left to say anything but good-bye, even if he'd been able to think of something.

And Sam had been gone, and silences had appeared between Dean and his father that had never been there before. A different kind of silence. Not companionable nor diligent as they had mostly been in the past, as neither Dean nor John had been given much to chattering, but the terrible, lonely kind of silence that echoes with the ghost of a voice that is no longer there. Sam's voice. And as the time went by the silences had gotten longer and deeper, and Dean hadn't been able to fix that either: hadn't tried as hard as he should have because he was angry with John, even though he couldn't admit it, not even to himself. Angry because John had let Sam leave, because he'd made him want to go in the first place. And then John had left and he hadn't come back either. And Dean hadn't been able to find him, and he'd been angry and panicked and guilt ridden. As furious with Sam for abandoning him as he was John, he hadn't been able to leave Sammy alone to live his safe and happy normal life. And then……Jessica had died, and with her, Sam's hope for that life.

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

And then he'd _really_ fucked up and Dad had died, and the total annihilation of the world Dean had known had been complete.

In the new world nothing made sense. John had gone to hell, for Dean, and Dean had promised him he'd save Sammy or _kill him_, they were sort of on the trail of the demon that had killed their parents, a demon that may or may not have given Sam some kind of power, which may or may not have the ability to turn his little brother and "the children like him", whatever the hell that meant, into a legion of antichrists, and now there was a girl. A girl who also had powers. Reggie who he also hadn't protected. Who'd died a little herself tonight and…. _Fuck!_

Dean tore off his own wet clothes and replaced them with boxers and a tee-shirt, the actions automatic, followed by the equally automated process of checking the manifold protections on the room. The stark white of the salt lines against the burgundy motel carpet too dark in colour to show the stains he knew where there and the gleam of the cat's eye shell in the weak lamplight. Sights as familiar to him as the image of his own face looking back from the crooked mirror by the door. His eyes saw the present, the hunter in him going through the motions of a routine he'd followed for as long as he could remember, his mind closing out the throbbing in his temples and ignoring the dull aching in his left knee that he should be too young for, in favour of the familiar actions, but he was still caught in the past.

Nothing had really gone right in his life since that moment. It all went back to the day that Sam left. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe it had never been right. Maybe he had never been.

Exhausted, Dean collapsed into the ratty armchair that stood facing the two queen beds against the opposite wall of the motel, dug his palms into his eyes, and waited.

When Reggie opened the door to the bathroom he walked across the room and took her arm, helped her weave her way to the bed, tucked her in next to Sam, touching her as briefly and superficially as the gesture of assistance would allow. Then he went back to the chair and he sat and he watched her. Watched them. Saw heavy lids close over golden eyes, heard Sam start to snore. And still he sat and watched, while all the mistakes of his past and all the people who'd paid for them, played through his mind.

Sam's phone rang.

Dean ignored it

After a emitting a few shrill squawks it fell silent and Dean was content to let Sam's voicemail kick in.

The phone rang again. Dean continued to ignore it.

_Damn contrary piece of technology!_ He bitched silently, leaning forward to scrub his hands over his eyes. Who in the hell was calling his brother at this time of the night anyway! He waited for a beat, and groaned silently when the cell once again began to hum and ring, vibrating its was across the table.

_Could be Bobby._

Said a reasonable voice in his head.

Dean still hesitated.

_Could be Ellen._

Pause.

_COULD BE IMPORTANT! __Is the point you're failing to grasp here, _the voice snapped.

"Fuck." Dean swore and snatched up the phone.

"What!?"

"Sam?" The voice on the other end of the line was soft, female, and clearly taken aback.

"Shit!"

"Dean." Not a question. The voice sounded quite certain and more than a little disapproving.

"Cami" Dean responded, equally unenthusiastic.

There was an irate sigh. She got straight to the point, and the fact that she had not interest in talking to him.

"Can I talk to Sam?"

That was fine, he wasn't much for niceties himself.

"Nope" Dean replied, glancing at the over-sized lump under the canary yellow comforter that was his brother. It was snoring rather loudly now. Dean winced at bit. Make that very loudly. He'd no idea how the much smaller lump that was Reggie, could sleep through it. Then again, she had gotten more than a little help from her old buddy Jameson.

There was a surprised pause at his unqualified denial of her request on Cami's end of the line in which Dean took a decidedly smug pleasure.

_Gottcha. _

He knew it was shallow, but smirked anyway. Her obvious judgment of him and his equally obvious failure to meet her standards irritated him.

"Well then, may I please speak to Reggie?" The tone was cool, formal, and bitingly polite.

Dean's Cheshire grin widened as he looked again at the smaller yellow lump. It was utterly motionless, Sam's stereophonics notwithstanding.

"Nope."

"Why not?!" The voice was sharper, not so polite now. Dean fought down the self-satisfied hum of amusement vibrating in his throat. _Not so high and mighty now, are we? _

"They're indisposed." He drawled.

"Oh God! Are they hurt!? What happened? Tell me what happened!! Sam, is he alright?" Her panic was evident in her voice and it pulled Dean upright in his chair and whipped the smirk off his face, shattering his sneering amusement. _Shit. You jackass! _He castigated himself. He hadn't meant to upset her. _Didn't giver her enough credit to realize that it would._ He admonished himself.

"It's alright, they're fine. Cami?" He could hear her shallow, frightened breathing.

"I promise. They're fine" he soothed, all traces of goading nonchalance gone from his tone, genuinely surprised by the depth of her concern.

"They just had a bit too much to drink is all." He elaborated, hoping to put her mind at ease.

But apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

"Reggie is _DRUNK!" _Cami's voice rose exponentially. Dean winced again, his head really was starting to hurt.

"What the HELL happened!?" Not really a question, more of a demand. Dean rolled his eyes, she sounded exactly like Reggie, and he should have realized that she would know her best friend well enough to know that Reggie getting drunk was out of character enough to be cause for more than a little concern. And he would have, realized that is, if he hadn't been more than a little worse for wear himself.

"Dean!" There was no mistaking the command in her voice, nor the poorly disguised worry.

"Look Cami, they'll live, okay?" It was closer to the truth. Dean seriously doubted whether Sam or Reggie would be "fine", after tonight, but he felt it was safe to confirm that come morning, they'd still be breathing. Though, they might wish that they weren't.

"I'm…..I'm….." Cami stuttered with the effort of processing, of speculating, of _knowing_ that she could ask but he wasn't going to tell her. That something was seriously wrong with Reggie _and_ Sam, and he was going to pat her on the head and tell her not to worry. Just like Sam.

"Goddamnit!"

The snarled curse was not what Dean was expecting.

"Cami?" He began, only to be cut off.

"You bloody people! What the hell is wrong with you!? You're out there with her, gallivanting all over hell's half acre, doing _God knows what!_ And you….you….you've got her…..I don't know, but she won't tell me, and he won't tell me, and I know better than to ask _you_ to tell me. And…And…."

She was stuttering again, the combination of fear and vexation spilling over into anger.

"What did you do?!" She finished, explosively accusatory and not bothering to try and conceal it.

"Me?!" Dean snapped back, his own temper simmering.

"Why the hell is it my fault? You haven't got a goddamn clue and count your goddamn blessings for it!" He barked harshly.

Surprised at himself, Dean subsided into his chair, as Reggie stirred at the sound of his anger, knowing his defensiveness was more of a reaction against he nagging voice in his head that had been making much the same accusation. That it was his fault that Reggie was hurting, that's she'd been hurt, in the line of fire. That she was even here. That Sam was falling apart.

On the other end of the line Cami was silent. Dean thought she might hang up on his patronizing ass. He'd probably deserve it. Even though what he'd said was true, he knew it couldn't be easy for her. Honestly, he'd be grateful if she did hang up on him because he just didn't need to hear it right now. Didn't need anymore reminders than this night had already served up, of his incompetence.

_Dad've had my balls for breakfast if he could see what a fucking mess I've made of this. _He thought with a humorless baring of teeth.

"Dean." Cami's soft voice interrupted his thought.

"Huh" he grunted, hoping she would just give up on the whole talking thing.

"I'm sorry."

No such luck.

"I….I just assumed, I mean. Look, we both know that you're, you're…"

"Spit it out" he suggested, his deep voice dry.

She took a deep breath,

"We both know that if there were a list of possible reasons Reggie might be driven to do something so out of character as get drunk out of her mind, which by the way" she added wryly,

"is, I think, a first for her. You'd be at the top of it. So, I'm sorry I assumed, and…..I didn't even think to ask….Whatever happened, are _you_ okay?"

And that one _really_ threw him for a loop.

"What?"

"Are you okay? I know that you can't, _won't" _and she made the fact that she resented it clear in that one syllable,

"Tell me what happened. But, I also know, from what Reggie and Sam have told me, that if they got hurt……you probably did too. She…she said that if anything hurt her or Sam, it'd have gone through you first."

"Uhhhhh. I'm fine." Dean said, still shocked, though if it was more due to Cami's apology or Reggie's championing of him, he couldn't have said.

"Hmmmm. I'm glad." And the silence stretched, and suddenly, everything that had happened, it was just so surreal, and given Dean's experience, that was saying something. And it was so weird, to talk to someone who so clearly cared about Reggie and Sam, and then, he was looking at Reggie again. The hard glint in her usually soft eyes blurred by tears, putting aside her own grief, sweeping up her shattered self and soothing Sam. _We know you Sam_. She's said. Said that it didn't matter what the Yellow-eyed demon had done to his brother. That Sam was _Sam_. It was the truth Dean lived by. His gospel. He'd his father for his idol and Sam for his saviour. And now, there was Reggie.

"Tonight, I thought she was like a bell." He divulged in hushed tones, as though such a feeling might be a sin, or worse, a sign of weakness, and he blinked when he heard his own voice speak the words in the silent room and looked down at the phone in his hand, as if surprised to see it there.

He had no idea why he'd just told her that.

Maybe he was still drunk. It was as plausible an explanation as any he could come up with for blurting out the cryptic confession…..

But Cami seemed to get it, because after a further moment where the only sound was the muted hum of static, he heard her whisper softly,

"Sometimes I think I dreamt Sam. That he's not real, that he can't be."

And it was if they were sharing some sort of secret. The secret of these two people and the love they couldn't admit.

There was another long pause.

"So. Cease fire?" Dean offered.

There was a sharp cadence of surprised laughter and then.

"Yeah sure. Why not." Cami responded.

"I figure if whatever happened today had the lot of you stumbling into the nearest bar and Sam and Reggie drinking themselves into a stupour, I figure you've had one ugly-ass day, and so I'll give you a pass on this one."

"Gee, thanks" Dean deadpanned back.

"You sure do know how to point out the positives. You're just sunshine and rainbows all over aren't ya?"

"Reggie calls me her Olympian Optimist" Cami agreed.

"Huh" was Dean's amused response.

"Well, anyway, thanks for checking in" he offered.

"I'm just glad you're okay" she murmured.

Dean snorted,

"Why sweetheart, I didn't know you cared." Now it was Cami's turn to snort.

"I meant _you're_ plural, as in _all _of you."

"Now, now darlin'" Dean teased,

"Too late to deny your true feelings now. Not that I blame you. I do possess something of an irresistible animal magnetism, and more than my fair share of roguish charm."

Cami snorted again,

"_You_ certainly seem to think so" she retorted. Dean laughed. Yeah, maybe he was gonna like Cami after all.

On the other end of the line, Cami was having similar thoughts about Dean. After all, if Sam and Reggie loved him, and Cami was sure that Reggie did, whether she was admitting it to anyone, including herself, or not, how bad could he be? He'd been more upfront with her than either Sam or Reggie, and though he'd been as infuriatingly closed-mouthed about the details as either of the other two, somehow his calm, staunch, uncomplicated assessment, _They'll live_, was more reassuring to her than any of the bright or indirect falsehoods Reggie and Sam often offered.

Dean sighed, reading Cami's sudden uneasy silence easily. She was about to start off on another spate of worrying.

"Look sunshine, I'll make you a deal" suggested Dean.

"You can assume that there isn't reason to get your water hot unless you hear otherwise from me."

"And you'd…..you'd, tell me. Honestly, if something went really wrong?" She asked, hating that her voice sounded tremulous but unable to prevent it.

Dean decided that it wasn't worth pointing out that if something went _really_ wrong, he likely wouldn't be around to be telling anybody anything.

"I promise. And don't worry, I'll protect them. Protect her" he amended, guessing correctly that Cami didn't need any reassurance of his intentions to look after Sam. But he wanted her to know that he be no less careful with Reggie.

"I don't doubt it." She hesitated, and then whispered,

"But who protects her from you?"

Dean thought about denying the fact that he was any kind of threat to Reggie, but seeing as he'd been spending so much of his own time dissecting all the ways he _was_ a danger to her, and in the spirit of honouring the strange mood of honesty that seemed to have overtaken their conversation, he found himself admitting the truth.

"I'm doing my best on that front too."

Hearing Dean's quiet declaration, hearing the conviction and yes, the quiet suffering in his voice, Cami's agile mind did a quick lap of the possibilities his admission leant to her friend's current situation, and found herself seriously renegotiating her standpoint. Which was why the last thing she said to Dean wasn't the warning that she'd had hovering on the tip of her tongue. It ran more to advice.

"With Reggie, you can't push. But you've got to strike the right balance, don't let her run away from you either. If she hasn't already bolted, then it's because she feels there's a reason for her to stay, and….to my knowledge, that's a first for her. Goodnight Dean."

And with that, she hung up, praying that Reggie would forgive her, because in the strange war that Dean and Reggie were fighting with their emotions, Camille Cassidy had just switched sides. Pressing a hand to her chest Cami let herself sink onto the sofa, because wasn't that just the damndest thing.

"I will be damned" Dean said over the dial tone, still somewhat bemused by Cami's parting remark.

"I think I just got a green light" he told the empty room. Not that it mattered. _You don't need Cami's approval to pursue Reggie because that's that thing you're __**not**__ doing, remember?_, he reminded himself.

Nonetheless, his voice was soft with speculation as he murmured,

"Night sunshine" and shut the phone with a snap.


	74. Chapter 74

AN: Hello. Waves, skips usual long explination of why this update has taken so long and goes right to the important stuff. First, hello to all new reviewers, especially those who don't have accoounts and to whose reviews I cannot reply. Thanks for the supports. Also, I just want to say again, under NO circumstances will this story be abandoned, even though I know the delays between updates are making some of you nervous, I promise, I'm not going anywhere and niether are Reggie, Dean, Sam and Cami. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying thier story. I hope you enjoy this latest update. Let's just say that I now understand why the writers of Supernatural tackled their forray into Werewolf lore so sapringly. It's a serious time investment to deal in the Weredom, and that is part of the reason this is all taking so long. Hopefully I'll be able to do some serious writing over the holiday wekend. In the mean-time, Happy Reading.

luv ArtemiS

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Dean grumbled as he resisted the tug of awareness that pulled at his senses, urging him toward consciousness. Shifting his body on the mattress, he used the arm he had wrapped around Reggie's waist to urge her hips to relax more deeply into the cradle of his thighs. Husking a wordless reassurance against her skin to dismiss whatever had disturbed her, he rubbed his nose through the soft, fine hair at her nape and felt her cheek caress his wrist where it rested under her chin, as she sighed back into sleep. Unfortunately, Dean's radar was now picking up the same sounds which had roused her. Stumbling towards wakefulness, for a moment, Dean wondered if maybe the horrors that made up his memory of yesterday had all been a bad dream. After all, Reggie was here, lying close, her body relaxed within his embrace as she usually was, not across the room in Sam's bed where she was supposed to be. 

_Sam._

It took him a decided mental effort to leaver his body off of the bed, disentangling himself from the cozy nest of blankets and Reggie's soft body, but Dean's mind had kicked fully into gear when he identified the noises that had dragged him awake as the unpleasant sound of Sam retching in the bathroom. The events of the previous night tripped though his brain, falling into place somewhat disjointedly, like scattered puzzle pieces struggling to connect, as he staggered towards the bathroom. The sight of Sam's shaggy head and heaving shoulders punched home the remaining details of gruesome reality, and he thought that he should have known it had all been real. His nightmares always were. Standing helpless vigil over Sam's misery, Dean sighed and grasped at the final vestiges of the fragile peace he'd felt when he'd awakened, and thought about how Reggie had wound up back in his bed.

It had been more than an hour since Dean had abandoned his diligent guard over Sam and Reggie's sleeping forms, to retire to the bed beside theirs, Cami's quiet words of confidence providing a meager barrier against the incrimination of the dark truths he concealed inside himself. They resurfaced slowly, and he felt the hook and prick of each nasty little claw of accusation as the voice in his head seized on his tiny beacon of hope, and tore it apart. 

_Even if Cami is right and Reggie does want to stay with you, even if she cares about you, you're still a cowardly bastard. In fact, it's worse if you've let it get that far. You're indulging yourself by keeping her, and it's the same selfish pigheadedness that got your father killed. How could you! Knowing that she's falling for you, for a man that doesn't exist! The Dean she knows, he's not real! The real Dean is a killer, a monster, and he's got no love left in him to give. You committed yourself wholly to saving Sam and there's no room for anything else, it's all you're good for, and even if you succeed and you survive the coming battle, you know, you __**know**__That when the time comes, you're still going to walk away. You're broken and not fit for the __**real**__world, you can't belong there, and no matter how noble the path you walk after you abandon her, every good thing you ever do will be tainted by the fact that you knowingly, willfully, destroyed this beautiful, sweet creature. She's an innocent in every sense of the word, and you've got no right to salve your wounds with her blood, and that's what it would be. Like a goddamned virgin sacrifice! You have to stay _**away! **_If the fact that loving her would tear you apart isn't enough to stop you, then at least have the decency and the guts to do it for her sake!_

Dean lay motionless on his back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his physical stillness a potent contrast to the vortex of guilt and pain spewing forth an endless geyser of self-recrimination and condemnation. He told himself to get up. Get off the bed and shake it off. Walk outside and feel the rain, take a shower, something, anything to escape, but he couldn't. He just didn't have any fight left in him tonight. He found himself transfixed, the weight of his fears and failures a physical thing pinning him down, and he was drained of the will to resist and lock away the crippling truth by the indefatigable list of faces, some nameless, like the woman by the roadside, others familiar and achingly dear; his father, parading through his mind. All the souls he hadn't saved and finally, Sam, whom he was so desperate to spare, and Reggie. 

That's when she'd come. 

He'd jerked like a wild thing shielding sharply at a human presence, when he felt the bed rock with her weight as she crawled in beside him.

Barely found his voice to croak out the question,

"What are you doing?"

Leaning over him, propped on one arm, her golden eyes had revealed exasperation and concern mirrored by the twist of her soft mouth.

"You're so loud. I can't sleep."

Dean had stared at her in confusion.

"I haven't made a sound" he protested.

She shook her head, 

"That's what you think" she muttered.

Her eyes met his, 

"You're so tangled up, and hurting--" Now her voice broke.

"I can't keep you out. I'm so tired, and so are you. We need to rest Dean. Please, just, let me—"

Her hand fell to his chest, stroking down, a long, slow sweep and he gasped when he felt the touch sink through his skin to brush against the seething, convulsing web of emotion that swelled below the periphery, her eyes holding a silent plea of, _trust me, _where they remained on his, and he didn't have the will to resist her, either. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt his acceptance and she let her power surge more firmly against the wall of colour and noise that screamed inside him, seeking him beneath the chaos.

He was so….smothered, Reggie thought, shaking her head in silent denial at the wild tangle of feeling stifling Dean. The very warp and weft of him was….obscured. There was so much "other" attached to him with writhing, constricting tendrils of guilt and pain and responsibility. She had to struggle to find Dean beneath the bright cobalt that was Sam, that Dean held so close and so dear. And beneath another blue so dark, it was like sapphire cut from the black sky. His father, she thought, running thick and true, wound tight around each of the emerald threads that should have been just Dean, the ones which made-up the framework of who he was, both stifle and support.

The gauzy silver that was a gossamer veil over his heart; Mother. 

It baffled and amazed her, how many colours, how many other people there were hung on him, draped and woven over and around where Dean should have been. _How could he possibly support them all, hold them up?_ And where the hell was _Dean_ in all that mess? 

Muttering under her breath, Reggie ran her gift over the snarl of emotions that caught and coiled inside him, smoothing them down, before curling into the mass and pulling gently.

This time, they gasped in unison when her power caught on the snags and knots that twisted Dean's emotional fabric, but she didn't stop, tugging, gentle but firm, until at least the surface of his soul was quiet.

Dean's breath whooshed out. He felt as though the knots of fear and uncertainty in his chest that had been tightening to the point of pain, had been untangled and smoothed straight by invisible hands, and the terrible pressure that had been stealing his breath had gone with them.

"What'd you d--?"

"Shhhhhh" Reggie interrupted him, settling against his side and arranging her head on his shoulder, her fingers still stroking a gentle rhythm in time with his heartbeat.

"It's only temporary I'm afraid." Her sigh stirred over his skin.

"But it should do for now. Go to sleep Dean" she encouraged, her arm sliding down until it could steal around his waist.

Her words were annoyingly cryptic and her actions should have been invasive. He didn't want her here, she only made things more confused…..or at least, that was the theory. 

Dean found himself curling his own arm around Reggie's back, pulling her closer. He figured he probably shouldn't question, just accept, the wash of peace that surged through him, but couldn't stop himself.

"Why are you doing this?" He whispered, and he didn't know if he was asking why she was here, inside his skin and easing his wounds; here in his bed, wrapping herself around him like a living blanket; or here, _with him_, in the middle of this hellish existence, this insane and largely undefined quest, this race against time and an enemy he couldn't even see clearly.

He felt the fingers on the hand tucked against his side contract, and for a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer, but then, Reggie sighed again, and the tawny head tucked under his chin shifted as her cheek smoothed against his chest.

"Honestly? Because I know I won't remember in the morning."

Dean smiled slightly.

"I will." He'd murmured. 

And he had. He'd remembered the luxury of that shared moment of peace, unfortunately, he remembered the rest as well.

Closing his eyes tightly, Dean slowly and deliberately pulled each vicious, painful moment of the previous evening to mind, and just as deliberately, let them go. It was a conscious and determined act of will. It was how he went on, day after day, night after night, year after year, living the endless round robin of fear and pain and isolation and grief. There was a job to be done, baggage wouldn't help him kill the Waga or save his brother. It wouldn't help him figure out what to do about his increasingly hard-to-deny feelings about Reggie. What he needed to do was focus, on the task at hand. 

First things first.

Sam shuddered hard and sat back heavily on his heels, before toppling over onto his ass on the grungy tile of the bathroom. Dean shoe-horned his body into the tiny space so he could crouch next to his brother, and ducked his head to get a good look at Sam's face.

Heavy shadow of stubble, bleary blue eyes and a permanent grimace. 

"Hey there featherweight" Dean shook his head,

"How's it goin in there?" He gave the side of Sam's head a gentle tap with his knuckles.

Sam groaned dramatically and swatted at him.

"I think I'm gonna die." He moaned.

"Nah." Dean contradicted affably,

"You're just wishin' you would but, never fear, I've got just the thing for that. You hang tight there champ, I'll be right back."

So saying, Dean walked back out of the bathroom, threw on his pants and exited the room, heading for the Seven-Eleven down the block at a brisk jog.

Fifteen minutes later he was returning to the room with supplies. 

"Here" he pitched Sam a bottle of water which he noticed his brother was quick enough to snag from the air, and set a cup of coffee and a donut in front of him where he sat at the table.

"Eat" Dean ordered, before moving to ease his weight cautiously onto the edge of the bed where Reggie still lay, careful not to jiggle the mattress.

"Hey slugger" he said softly, coaxing her to relinquish the comforter she had pulled over her head. It receded inch by inch under the steady pressure of his insistent hand until Reggie's face was exposed. Her skin was pale and the circles under her eyes, which remained stubbornly screwed shut against the invasive shine of the sun, were almost black.

She hissed something largely unintelligible which ended in, 

"s'goddamed bright!"

Obligingly, Dean leaned forward until his shoulders blocked out the offending rays, casting her face in shadow. He was rewarded by the un-scrunching of one eye, which squinted irritably at him.

"What!" She growled, the wrathful demand losing most of its impact when it trailed off into a groan and she put a hand to her head.

"Bad?" Dean asked sympathetically.

"Feels like someone's taken a jackhammer to my temples" she whispered, her expression pained and horrified as she struggled to deal with the disorienting pain and weakness that accompanied a really good hangover.

"Easy" Dean cautioned, when she flailed an ineffectual hand in a swiftly aborted attempt to sit up.

"Here, take these tenderfoot."

He advised, slipping an arm under her shoulders so she could sit and pressing two aspirin against her lips, followed by a bottle of water. Unable to do anything but obey, Reggie forced herself to swallow, relief flooding her as the water ran over her wickedly dry tongue and chapped lips, soothing the tightness in her throat. 

"Oh. God." She managed to cough out, fighting the urge to collapse backwards.

Dean solved the problem by reaching across the bed with a long arm and grabbing his pillow, which he stacked behind her head along with her own, before easing her carefully back so she was propped against the headboard.

"Okay?" he asked, and Reggie could barely bring herself to look in his eyes, as the shrill ringing in her ears and the pounding behind her eyes faded just enough for her to feel the full impact of complete and utter mortification. She was weak as a kitten and totally dependant on Dean's strength. She hated it.

Seeing the look on her face, Dean misinterpreted.

"You gonna be sick?" He asked bluntly.

Nope, she'd been wrong, Reggie thought as she felt a hot surge of colour climbing her cheeks, it could get worse.

"No" she gasped.

"I nev-"

"Never throw up" Dean finished, predicting her reply and seeming amused. The light in his eyes invited her to share the joke, but to Reggie's even greater horror, there was a wide, blank space in her mind where a substantial chunk of time and memory should have been.

Reading her stricken expression Dean chuckled.

"Relax" he reassured her.

"A bit of memory loss here and there is perfectly normal after the kinda bender you went on last night."

Reggie closed her eyes,

"I….I. Went on a bender?" she whispered.

Dean grinned.

"You sure as hell did. Pretty impressive one too. Drank Sammy here under the table in no time. Speaking of which"

He glanced over at his brother,

"We've gotta take care of a few things. You just lay here an recuperate." He stood up,

"Try to drink the rest of the water and eat some of the bagel" he pointed to the bag he'd set on the bedside table. There was a cup of tea beside it.

"I even found some of that green junk you like" he said by way of explanation, winking cheekily at her when she groaned again.

"You're enjoying this" she accused.

He grinned.

"No I'm not" he protested unconvincingly.

"Well" he conceded,

"Maybe a little. Like, this much" He illustrated by holding up his right hand, thumb and forefinger held about an inch apart.

His teasing smile faded as he leaned in close again.

"You'll remember some things eventually, mostly the stuff you were trying to forget in the first place. When you do" he paused, his green eyes somber with regret and compassion,

"Try not to think about it. Put it somewhere else. Focus on the now, okay?"

Surprised and alarmed by his words Reggie gave a barely perceptible tip of her head, the closest thing she could manage to a nod in her current state.

"Good" Dean gave her knee a squeeze beneath the covers and spun on his heel, heading toward Sam with a devilish glint in his eye.

Seeing him coming, Sam yanked the clean tee-shirt he'd grabbed hastily over his head and shoved the last bite of donut into his mouth. Backing away warily, he swallowed and demanded.

"Waddaya want?"

"Me?" Said Dean, holding out his arms in a non-threatening posture, his face a picture of innocence.

"Not a thing." He took half a step to the side, and then lunged forward, catching his incapacitated brother easily round the neck and pulling him into a tight headlock. 

"Dean, what the hell!" Sam growled and squirmed, but was unable to break free.

"We got some business to take care of Sammy boy" Dean told him firmly, beginning to drag him bodily toward the door.

"What!" Sam yelped.

"Now! No. Dean!" He snarled, trying ineffectually to dig in his heels.

"My frickin' head is killing me! I'm a goddamn mess! I don't wanna go outside. There's sun and people and….stuff" he protested as Dean reached the door and yanked it open, mercilessly propelling him through it.

Sam hissed when the sun hit his eyes.

"Oh, I am gonna fucking _kill you!_ " He snarled.

"Yeah Yeah Yeah. Payback's a bitch and all that. Save it." Unimpressed by the threat, Dean waved his free hand and kicked the door shut behind them, removing them from Reggie's view and muffling Sam's retort.

Left alone in the hotel room, Reggie sighed at the sudden and blessed decent of _quiet_, that came with the brother's exit. She thought Dean had been a bit heartless for dragging Sam off when still wasn't feeling well, but she appreciated the alone time. Wriggling under the blankets, she snuggled herself back into the pile of pillows and arranged her neck at a comfortable angle. Then she smoothed the covers down with her hands. The effort made her head pound and her limbs tremble violently with the simple motion. Lying back, she took ten deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, willing the world to stop spinning and her stomach to quit feeling as though she'd booked permanent passage on a tilt-a-whirl. Ensconced in her warm cocoon, she stayed perfectly still, until she felt her shivers subside and opening her eyes didn't threaten to negate her claim of _I never throw up. _That was when it started. 

Strange pictures flashing in brief, sudden bursts through her head. Dean's fist connecting with someone's jaw. Sam's limp body crammed into the back seat of the Impala. Dean's green eyes looking up at her while he…took off her socks! And then….. Blood in the moonlight. The face of a woman she didn't know, eyes staring and sightless. Malevolent eyes gleaming like rubies in the shadows and the glitter of white fangs—Reggie's whole body jerked as she instinctively flung the image away and new wave of nausea rolled over her, leaving her panting, curling her legs up to try and ease the sudden ache in her belly and chest. But it was no use.

_You can't avoid it forever._ Said a voice in her head. 

_Time to be a big girl. Whatever it is, you've got to face it sometime._

Squeezing her sore scalp between her hands, Reggie blew out a breath and prepared to face the consequences of her actions.

She pushed tentatively at her memory, forcing herself back, past the yawning blank space in her mind, toward the veiled figures and voices that flickered, distant and indistinct. Memories shrouded, but not missing. Her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears as she approached the mental curtain that separated her conscious mind from what lay beyond, something inside shying violently at the thought of lifting the fog, knowledge that she did not want to know what awaited her there was like ice in her veins. But it didn't matter, she had to know, she had to remember! Grasping her conviction firmly, she clawed at the vapours nimbus of obscurity until it ripped away.

It came back in slashes, wide vivid cuts of memory that scored her mind like a whip, leaving images to terrible to be real burned into the back of her eyes, feelings crushing in their pain and cruelty. And she knew before the onslaught had finished, that there was no way to ever be free of them. It was like a brand on her mind and heart. 

The dark and the sound of the Waga's howel. The determined set of Deans shoulders as he walked into a silent field to face a monster, the flashes of silver and brown, claws in the moonlight and the spray of dirt where Dean's body impacted the ground. The scream of relief she hadn't voiced when there'd been no macabre, telltale flash of red. And the way it had all been ripped away, the relief and the dreadful calm, by the sound of a woman's screams. And then….Reggie turned her face into the pillow behind her, bit down upon the soft, feather-filled cloth, and screamed until her voice went hoarse. 

She screamed and then she shook, but she couldn't cry, and when it was done, the violent outpouring of emotion left her feeling empty and drained, but not better. There was no reprieve. She didn't know how long she lay there, spent and shuddering, waiting for what came next, finally realizing that life altering experience actually altered _you_, more so than life.

There was still a day to face, a job to do, it was just that the Reggie who had to go through those motions of living was different from the one who'd gone through them the day before. But that didn't mean she didn't still have to live, so she pushed aside the hollow feeling and forced herself breathe. Her fingers ached from clutching at the pillow, but her breathing stuttered and smoothed as she recognized the scent that clung to the fabric beneath her cheek. 

Dean.

Sucking in his scent as though it could purge the dark splinters lodged in her soul, Reggie closed her eyes and thought of the Winchesters. Thought about how this was their life, this was what they did, what they lived with, everyday. What they chose to go back to, because they helped people. The first time Dean had done this, acknowledged the reality of the life he lead, he must have been just a child. Sam too. In the face of that thought, of their obvious sacrifice and bravery, how could she give any less? 

And with that thought, Reggie pushed away the rest, sealed it up with all the other painful memories and crippling guilt, and locked it away. And then, she got up. 

Sam stumbled out the door, his still-ginger system violently protesting the stinging rays of the sun and the tight pressure of his brother's arm around his neck, but before his rebellious stomach could decide to do something about it, the firm hold eased and then vanished. Sam stayed doubled over for a moment, almost sad that the nausea was receding so quickly. He'd have dearly loved to pay Dean back for his bullying by puking all over his favourite combat boots. 

Sucking in air as the last of the dizziness faded, Sam lamented the lost chance for vengeance and straightened, intent on telling his brother to go to hell and how many ways he could get there, only to have Dean shove a red plastic bucket into his arms.

He looked down in surprise, registering the white froth of soap bubbles that sloshed wildly against the brim of the pail and feeling the wet warmth seeping into his tee-shirt where they had spilled over. A fat yellow sponge rocked languidly in the midst of the miniature waves.

"What the hell is this?" Sam sputtered, his irritation doused by confused surprise.

"You got a mess to clean up Sammy." Dean replied with infuriating calm.

"Huh?" Said Sam.

Dean didn't reply, just raised his arm and pointed.

Sam's eyes followed the gesture, coming to rest on……the Impala. Or at least, he was pretty sure it was the Impala. 

Whistling quietly under his breath, Sam walked towards the car, all thoughts of buckets and revenge equally pushed aside by the spectacle.

Normally, the Impala wore nothing but her gleaming coat of patent midnight paint and maybe a light layer of road dust. This morning the usually pristine shine of the black metal was obscured by an opaque mire of what looked like, Sam leaned in for a closer look. 

Mud and white wax?

Beneath the liberal brown smears, Sam could vaguely make out what looked like the remnants of hastily drawn Devil's Traps. The white substance with which they had been drawn was smeared and smudged, having, in most places, melted to mix with the mud into a oily kind of…..glop.

What happ-?" Sam stopped in mid-question, his brain finally revving into life. Rather than finish, he made a grim face and tapped his own chest, guessing, correctly, that this had something to do with the substantial chunk of time he was missing from last night.

"Mmmm" Dean confirmed.

Sam shook his head.

"Sounds like I've got some catching up to do." He sighed.

Dean grinned,

"You can listen while you scrub, Cinderella" he laughed, leaning against the passenger door and motioning to the bucket.

And scrub Sam did, starting at the back bumper and working steadily forward, while Dean gave him a short and concise update on last night's events. Well, up to the point where Dean had witnessed first-hand the wide, ragged holes in Reggie's soul. _She_ probably didn't even remember that and as much as he knew she trusted Sam, he figured she'd rather he didn't say anything. The damn bar and the bikers made for a colourful enough story as it was. And that was on top of the Waga and…..the woman.

"Jesus" Sam breathed when he was done, then,

"Shit. How is she?"

Dean shrugged. It was hard to tell. It would take time to see how the toll of yesterday would show up on Reggie. They both knew about the kind of scar she'd received. Knew that everyone wore them in their own way. Soon, they would discover how Reggie would wear hers, and there would be no forgetting, no denying the mark they'd put on her, even if no one else was able to see it.

Recognizing the look of guilt in Sam's eyes Dean knew he was having similar thoughts, and decided to change the subject. You couldn't go back, you could only go forward.

"How are _you_?" He asked.

Sam looked up from where he was staring at the ground, his right hand still pushing the sponge in small, absent circles over the Impala's hood.

He stilled for a moment and his eyes unfocused, and Dean knew he was taking metal stock. Then he screwed up his face.

"Not too bad actually?" He sounded perplexed. Dean chuckled and Sam looked up sharply.

"You think, when Reggie…..at the bar?" He waved a hand to indicate the use of supernatural power.

"Ye-ah" Dean drawled slowly, thinking back to the way he'd felt the gentle lap of Reggie's power against his mind when she'd spoken to Sam, the power he'd heard in her voice, seen in her eyes.

Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes.

"Huh" he said again. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about the idea that Reggie had obviously changed something inside his head. Or rather, his heart. His brain was still saying all the same things it had always said about darkness and destiny, but somehow, the noose of dread that had perpetually hung, ever-tightening, around his throat, seemed to have vanished. He rolled his head on his neck, testing the strange sensation of lightness, of….hope. It had been a long time since he'd felt this way.

Dean watched Sam cataloguing the effects of Reggie's gift and thought about telling him what Reggie had said.

_It's only temporary_. 

But then again, maybe she hadn't done the same thing with Sam as she had with Dean later, in the bed. Or maybe if he didn't tell Sam that trouble was coming back, it wouldn't. Believing that his demons had been exorcized for good might help that to actually happen. Having made his decision, Dean went back to watching Sam, who straightened abruptly from his crouch over the Impala.

"I should go talk to her. Tell her….." he trailed off, because really, what could he say? Gee, thanks for fixing me? But it didn't matter, Dean had already caught his arm and was shaking his head.

"No. She….needs time. She doesn't want to be comforted before she's had a chance to process and deal. She's too vulnerable, she thinks we see too much and…..she doesn't want that." Dean's frustration with Reggie's unwillingness to let him in was palpable to Sam, though Sam doubted Dean knew just how much his words said about his own emotions. 

By the time Dean had finished Sam was staring at him with a look on his face that said _he_ was seeing too much. Too much of how Dean felt for Reggie. And the truth had always been harder to deny when it looked at him form behind Sam's eyes, or spoke to him in Sam's voice.

_Crap. _He thought silently.

"Quit looking at me like I've grown another head" He snapped.

Sam ducked his head and went back to scrubbing, but Dean caught his muttered,

"More like a heart."

And it was true. Sam had never known Dean to be so attuned or attentive to anyone else's needs. Well, anyone who wasn't Sam himself anyway.

"Oh gimme a break" Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's comment.

"It's not like I'm in competition for asshole of the year" he protested Sam's disbelief.

Sam merely raised his eyebrows and slapped more lather against the hood, letting the wet squelch of the sponge speak for him. And it did, volumes, about hangovers and headaches and merciless older brothers, but Dean wasn't interested.

He smirked at Sam without an ounce of sympathy or repentance.

"House rules Sammy. You make a mess, _especially_ if it involves my baby, you clean it up. And besides, you always feel better the morning after if you get up and get goin', out in the fresh air."

Sam stretched his long torso across the hood of the car so he could run the sponge over the windshield, flexing his shoulders as he felt the warm fingers of the sun against his back, sinking in and soothing muscles he now knew were stiff from being stuffed in the back of the Impala. He inhaled deeply through his nose, filling his lungs with crisp, fresh morning air and silently admitted that Dean was right. Not that he'd give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud, and not that he believed for a second that that was the sole reason Dean had dragged him out here at the goddamn crack of daw--.

Sam turned incredulous eyes on Dean as he remembered his brother's bracing, parting words to Reggie and understanding dawned.

"You hauled my ass out here because you knew Reggie needed to be alone when she remembered about last night."

Dean visibly squirmed.

"Well I'll be damned" Sam hummed, bemused.

It hadn't been just that. It had been that if Dean had stayed and looked into Reggie's bewildered, shadowed eyes for one more second, if he'd had to watch the memories surface and the darkness deepen, and God help him, if she had cried, he'd have climbed back into the bed and offered her the kind of comfort that started with hugs that went from her forehead to her heels and kisses that sipped the tears from her eyelashes and feathered along her collar bone and the vulnerable hollow of her throat, until he replaced the ache of pain with one of fire, and they both burned away their regrets and ghosts in the flames. 

It shook him, how much he wanted to offer her the tenderness that would shatter them both, and it bothered him because he couldn't stop wanting her, not even now, not even with the circumstances being what they were. The need just wouldn't be ignored or fade or go away. It just got stronger.

"I just…can't stop." The words were so quiet Sam almost didn't hear them, wasn't even sure that Dean had meant to speak them aloud, but judging from the way he was staring at the motel, his eyes brilliantly intense, as though his gaze could pierce the concrete walls and find Reggie beyond, left him in no doubt of what Dean was talking about. And he knew how desperate and confused Dean must have been to be reaching out to him, even in this small way.

Sam, studying his brother from behind slitted eyes, felt epiphany wash over him. 

His physical frustration was obvious, but it was more than that. He looked a little lost, and more than a little flustered, confused even.

Dean'd probably had more knowledge about sex at fourteen, first-hand, than Sam'd had at twenty but, Dean still didn't know anything about making love. And Sam didn't know how to tell him that love was different, it made everything different. That the need didn't go away because the physical hand become the manifestation now, the testament, of something that was so much more……and it was permanent.

Yeah, Sam had no idea how to tell Dean that there was no getting out of this one. Wasn't sure it would help anyway. Dean was way to stubborn to listen if Sam told him to quit fighting and admit what was so glaringly obvious. And Sam felt like a hypocrite to boot, because he wasn't anymore willing to examine his feelings for Cami than Dean was to admit his for Reggie. Though there was still a voice in his head that refused to abandon the dream for his brother that he now denied himself. The set of Dean's shoulders said he didn't want to talk about it anyway. Accepting his new insight as well as the fact there wasn't much he could do for his brother other than simply be there, Sam whipped his brow on his forearm and crouched to swipe the last bit of lather off the front fender.

Standing to face Dean, tipping over the bucket and spilling out the remaining, now very muddy, wash water to signify he was done, he gave the hood a final buff with the soft drying cloth. But when he turned to head for the room Dean shook his head.

"She'll let us know" he said simply and Sam subsided. Leaning side by side against the car they both watched the door to number 7 intently. Sam finally broke the silence.

"So, the Waga."

That got Dean's immediate and undivided attention. Sam watched the shift behind his brother's eyes as Dean switched into hunter mode. 

"It's already messier than I'd like" he said.

Sam nodded as Dean continued.

"What are you thinking?"

"We need to solidify and flesh out our cover story. We've got a week and a half until the next full moon, so we could be here awhile which means we're gonna need documentation. We don't know who the Waga and the pack are but they know us so they could try to rouse the suspicion of others, which means our stuff has got to be solid and certifiable. I'll call Ash and see if he can't help me fabricate a few death records etc. Ummm, we're gonna have to move to a more respectable hotel and get two rooms, we shouldn't be sharing with our 17 year old sister. Reggie is still our best in with Warren, who is still our best lead on the Waga, so we need to arrange for her to start school asap, and further to that, the Waga knows who she is too so we're gonna have to take some precautionary measures because it's not like we can follow her around every second, particularly not while she's at school."

Dean nodded along as Sam spoke, mentally comparing and ticking off his own list.

They had a brief argument about weather or not he should try to get a job for appearances sake, which Sam won, and he was about to launch into his pitch on socialization when he realized Dean wasn't paying him the least attention.

Following Dean's gaze, taken aback by the naked hunger he saw there, Sam saw Reggie standing in the doorway of their room, the black tee-shirt she was wearing as a nightgown draping around her small figure and falling to mid-thigh.

"I guess that's the signal huh?" Said Sam, managing to claim Dean's partial attention.

"What?" His brother muttered, still distracted, his eyes traveling the long length of Reggie's bare legs.

"I said I guess we'd better go lay down the new ground rules for Reggie." He grinned,

"I'm nominating you for that job. She's not going to like it."

"I don't give a damn whether she likes it or not" Dean growled, suddenly fierce.

"No rules, no job. I'm not putting her any more at risk than she already is."

"I don't recommend using that exact phrasing when you break the news to her" Sam advised dryly, diffusing the sudden tension that crackled in the air, courtesy of Dean's protective instincts going into overdrive.

Dean glanced sideways at him,

"Gee, thanks for the tip Braintrust."

"I'm just sayin', when you're going to beard the lion, or in this case, lioness, a little delicacy or diplomacy never hurt anyone."

At that Dean snorted and started to walk towards the open door, his eyes still on Reggie. 

Sam took two long strides to catch up with him, resisting the uncharitable urge to roll his eyes at his brother's obvious preoccupation with the golden-eyed girl awaiting them and is mule-headed refusal to acknowledge it. Much less discuss it.

"And one more thing."

"Oh, what?" Muttered Dean, exasperated.

Just because Dean didn't want to talk about it, didn't mean that Sam couldn't make himself heard.

"If you don't quit looking at our kid sister that way, somebody is going to call child services." He said, deadpan, before brushing by his brother and into the room.


	75. Chapter 75

A/N: Greetings friends. I am sorry I have been away so long. Death in the family, well, two actually, and some major technical and personal problems amount to major story delays. On the other hand, this chapter is nearly 10 000 words long, so I hope that makes up for it somewhat. I have messed around with the timlines in this chap a fair bit and I hope that they are clear, and I've also added linear breaks to denote a change in POV or scene, do tell me what you think. As always, thanks so much for hanging in there with me. More to follow asap.

luv ArtemiS

p.s. I'll respond to all of your wonderful reviews shortly, but probably not tonight. :p

Dean followed Sam into the doorway and stopped, watching as his brother continued his progress through the door and then across the room without slowing, backing Reggie resolutely toward the wall as she rapidly gave way before him

Dean followed Sam into the doorway and stopped, watching as his brother continued his progress through the door and then across the room without slowing, backing Reggie resolutely toward the wall as she rapidly gave way before him. Her eyes were red in a face that was too pale and the harsh rasp of her voice, forced from a throat still thick with tears, when she spoke, was barely recognizable.

"Sam. Just—Wait. Don't—".

Her actions matched her words as she shrank back from Sam's advance, one hand held out to ward him off. Dean could see how raw she was, how vulnerable still, and he could she how much she hated it, how much she wanted to deny it.

She wanted to be strong. To stand on her own. Dean knew it wasn't the answer for her. It wasn't how she was built. She needed to share. To hold and be held and damnit! He couldn't give that to her. Luckily, Sam saw past her defensive need for isolation as easily as his brother, and he was having none of it.

The rigid tension that had gripped Dean's body, hardening every muscle as though he were preparing for a battle with an unseen enemy at the dejected picture Reggie made, melted away as he watched Sam corner her and override her objections to his offer of comfort by simply scooping her right off her feet and plopping into the nearest chair.

Leaning forward Sam pressed his forehead to Reggie's and looked deeply into tawny eyes filmed with the crystal sheen of tears.

"You need to cry somemore? You go ahead. You need to scream? You go on and do that too. But you aren't doing it alone Reggie, we've all had too much of that. It won't help you, being alone, holding all that in, trying to spare us. Just like it didn't help me."

The last admission got Reggie's attention, pulled her rapidly flickering gaze to meet the lapis depths of his and holding.

"You know it's true. What I was doing, cutting myself off, hoarding the pain. It doesn't help you to get over it, get past it. To go on. It just creates a trap and it gets to be like quicksand. All the guilt and the agony of it sucking you in an pulling you down and just—suffocating you. Immobilizing you. And pretty soon, what started out as a way to protect yourself, to protect others, it swallows you up, stops you from fighting at all. Now, I don't know what you did the other night, and I don't know how, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe I should start fighting again. Like maybe _I_ _can. _Don't let yourself make the same mistake I did."

Reggie's voice was tremulous when she whispered,

"What do I do?"

It grew stronger, rose.

"What am I supposed _to_ _do_!? How does anyone….How do _you,_ do—_this!_ " Her arm curved in a broad, wild arc, indicating the immense, debilitating scope of the tragedy and the pain and the nagging, inescapable knowledge that it would happen again. And again. And _again_.

Her uncertainty and desperation tore at Dean's heart.

So did Sam's answer.

"Just hold on. Hold onto me. That's the first step."

They were the very same words Dean had once spoken to a trembling, terrified, ten-year old Sam who'd knelt, shivering, beside the severed head of the gorgon, macabely festooned with still-thrashing vipers, whose venomous fangs he'd just stopped from sinking into Dean's unprotected back while he'd been busy torching the monster's nest after decapitating its mate.

Sammy had taken one look at the grotesque, vaguely humanoid face of his first kill, needle-toothed serpents writhing at the crown of its head, its death throes forever frozen in a mask of stone while the snake's jaws, in disconcerting contrast to the granite face, still snapped open and shut, and puked his pre-pubescent guts out.

By the time Dean had staggered over and fallen to his knees beside him, Sam had been quaking like a leaf, every fiber of his young body vibrating as guilt and grief and fear and disgust fought for supremacy inside him. Dean could still remember the reek of burning blood and the fine grey powder of stone and ash on the firelit air. Remembered the way Sammy's small fingers had dug into the fabric of his coat as Dean had wrapped it around him while they'd knelt on the damp, decomposing floor of the swamp where the creatures had made their home, both cold despite the fetid weight of the humid air. Remembered the way his little brother's voice had faltered when he'd asked, miserable, afraid, and so _lost…._

_Wh--What do we do now?_

And Dean hadn't known the answer. At fourteen killing gorgons had no longer been sufficient to rattle him though, turning just in time to see the bone white flash of viper fangs slashing through the air towards his neck just as their progress was interrupted by the metallic glint of Sam's too-big sword, had done a pretty good job. But what had _really_ shaken him was looking into his brother's eyes, owlishly large in the dark, the tears there catching and refracting what little light there was, seeing the fear and the question in them, and not knowing how to banish the darkness, because it was _real_, anymore then he could shrug off cold splinter of fear still lurking in his own heart, threatening his unshakable, adolescent self-assurance. Fourteen was far too young to be facing the harsh reality of one's own mortality and a crushing sense of responsibility for your kid brother's loss of innocence, especially at midnight in a lonely bayou where evil had a heartbeat, claws, and_ fangs_, and even the sun had difficultly shining through the heavy tapestry of creeper vines and moss, much less the moon. So he'd done the best he could.

_Just hold on._

That's what Dean had told him.

And they both had.

That's how John had found them.

His two boys, one barely a teenager and the other still a child, kneeling together beside the smoldering corpses of gorgon spawn and griping onto each other as though their lives depended on it.

Maybe Dean hadn't really ever been able to let go.

Maybe Sammy had tried too hard.

Either way, the scene was an uneasy ghost from a past Dean didn't want to see repeated.

Reggie's actions, the way she submitted to Sam's embrace, curling up against his chest, her fingers locking tightly in the material of his tee-shirt, mimicked his memory as much as Sam's words had.

The parallel did not comfort him.

But there wasn't much he could do except smile reassuringly when, with her arms still about his brother's neck, Reggie hooked her chin over Sam's shoulder so her amber eyes could seek the jade depths of his own, reaching out and connecting, seeking and offering a solace more powerful for the absence of the need for touch to establish it.

There was pain there to be sure but still, her desire to be linked with him, the undeniable way in which she drew him into the embrace of her compassion and the resilience of her spirit, even against his will, did what's Sam's words, an eerie echo of a past that was all wrong but that couldn't be changed, could not.

It comforted him.

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Reggie sighed a little raggedly and let her body relax against the warm, solid length of Sam even as she allowed her battered psyche to draw comfort from his words, and more powerfully, from the core of renewed hope and light she felt glowing inside him. It was bright and steady and as big and strong as the body that housed it. She felt the choking pressure of the repressed tears clogging her throat ease. With her face tucked next to his neck she could hear his heart and count his breaths. The exercise steadied her and she raised her eyes to look at Dean standing in the doorway, needing to see him.

He didn't move to cross the threshold and enter the room. He held back, stayed removed, one shoulder propped against the doorframe, keeping watch over the healing embrace she and Sam shared, but he didn't participate.

He never did.

She didn't have to reach out, as exhausted as she was, Reggie _couldn't_ _stop_ _herself,_ from feeling Dean.

It had been that way from the beginning.

He was the only person she'd ever known who seemed to have a connection to her gift independent of her will. It was as though he was a part of it, seamlessly and inextricably woven into the fabric of her power, and so he was always there, inside her. Their months together had been fraught with her increasingly desperate attempts to find a way to block him out, only to finally be forced to admit, she couldn't. At this moment it was Sam's heartbeat she could hear, but it was Dean's she _felt_.

Her failure to disengage from Dean had lead Reggie to do the next best thing she could think of to disentangle her gift from him. She'd loosened her grip on her extrasensory abilities overall, letting in a little more of the background babble of feelings and emotions that hummed around her everyday. It was like letting a faucet run at a trickle. It was easier to drown Dean among the myriad of other voices then shut him out entirely but, it was quiet here at the little backwater motel, and Reggie found herself without the motivation and energy required to smother the steady, persistent thrum that signified his constant presence within her. Instead she opened and let herself feel the unsettled, painful surge of worry and sorrow that tightened his jaw and drew the full curve of his mouth taut at the edges. And it wasn't all about what had happened last night, though she could tell that the dangerous puzzle posed by the Waga was weighing heavily on him. There was also something that had passed between he and Sam earlier this morning and…….a flicker of memory. Pain from long ago, the edges worn with use but not blunted.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Reggie blinked, drawn from her reflection when Sam voiced the very words she'd silently been speaking to Dean, only he was talking to her.

Reggie looked at Dean for a moment longer and then sat back, reading his unwillingness to be prodded and poked in his darkened eyes and the internal shut-down she felt like an iron dead-bolt being slammed shut inside her own chest. And she knew that the only thing he wanted to do less then talk about his own feelings, was talk about hers. That her fear, her pain, were harder for him then his own. So, she shook her head and pulled her hair back out of her face before answering Sam.

"Nope. I'm getting the sense that there was already at least one chick flick moment this morning, and that anymore are going to drive poor Dean right over the edge." She predicted, trying both to spare Dean and lighten the mood.

She smiled genuinely at Sam,

"I guess we'll just have to have our girly, touchy-feely time later."

The teasing remark did the trick. Sam laughed and Dean's lip curled up at the corner as he pushed away from the door and finally entered the room, breaking the strange distance that had been keeping him separate from her and Sam.

He sighed.

"Now normally, that'd be something I'd pay good money to see, but seeing as Samantha here is only a girl on the _inside_, I think I'll take a pass on the floorshow."

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The shared moment of respite had been short-lived. Reggie spent the rest of the weekend in increasing stages of twisting.

It was the stress.

It had been so long now since she'd found herself in a prolonged state of agitation-- Well, short of the continual nagging worry about Sam, Dean, Cami and her family and the general debacle with the Yellow-eyed demon that had become so routine she no longer even really noticed the heightened tension-- That she had almost forgotten about the nervous tick that had always characterized any period of increased stress during her academic career. Nothing that found itself beneath her restless fingers was spared. Her hair, the comforter on the bed, the leather thong on which her pendant hung, all took a turn as the tourniquet with which she steamed the tide of nerves. On Saturday evening she'd been sitting on the bed, looking over Sam's shoulder as they discussed the probable ages of their alter-egos, only becoming aware that she'd been wrapping the edge of the collar of his plaid button-down around her index finger when he'd been forced to stop her, because she'd wound the fabric so tightly that it had begun to exert an uncomfortable pressure on his windpipe.

The incident was a mild indicator of the extent of her mental abstraction, the superlative example wouldn't manifest until late Sunday evening.

Most of Friday and all of Saturday were spent doing research, forging documents, and practicing, and the increasingly imminent reality of what they were about to undertake was certainly one of the greatest contributors to Reggie's anxiety.

Her brain felt heavy, weighted down with all of the new details she had to remember. No. Not just remember. _Live_. And what's more, make other people _believe_, that this complex, carefully constructed lie, was her life. She shook her head at the absurdity.

It was early Sunday afternoon and Reggie's nerves were starting to get the better of her. In a little less than twenty-four hours, she would be going back to high school. Sam's philosophy on prolonged under-cover work was _**Be Prepared**_**.** His approach to the situation was a combination of boy scout and scholar characterized by a studious intensity that included careful study and endless repetition.

As a result, the bare bones of Reggie Throne and her brothers', whom Sam had unwittingly created that fateful Thursday, had become fully-realized, well-rounded characters. Reggie knew every particular of the personas she and Sam had created. One Regina Thorne was as real inside her head as anyone she knew. She could recite the more basic information, her new birth date, the names and birthdates of her two new siblings, the same for her parents, as well as the date and circumstances of their deaths, with ease. She knew the complicated family history they had worked out backward and forward, and all of the fabricated characters were as real on paper as Reggie herself. Thanks to a mysterious character named Ash, for whom circumventing and/or high jacking federal databases and forging legal documents was even less of a big deal than it was for Sam, Reggie Thorne and her brothers had birth certificates and passports, school records and, in the case of their unfortunate and lately deceased parents, coroner's reports and death certificates. Her fictional father had even filed his taxes and paid his credit card bills for the last decade for crying out loud!

On top of that, she and Sam had discussed every possibility, every plausible scenario she might have to deal with. Debated and deliberated over the minutia, the nuances, of her character. Filled in all the little personal details that made someone who they were. Reggie Thorne didn't just have a social insurance number and a driver's license. She had quirks, she had habits, she had a specific psychology. In short, she had a personality and _still_, Reggie was nervous because Miss Thorne was _still_, quite simply, not real. It was a lie, and Reggie couldn't help but feel that everyone in the small community of Thermopolis was going to see right through her.

After all, no matter what Sam seemed to think, knowing the right answer and believing it, making _other people_, believe it, were two very different things. And that wasn't the only problem Reggie didn't know how to solve.

She knew she and Sam were driving Dean nuts. He spent most of his days hunkered in the back corner, booted feet resting on a drawn-up chair, heavy tomes laid out across his lap and his father's journal open before him on the table, or restlessly pacing the confines of the hotel room like a cougar in a cage. He'd glanced at the complicated outline of information Sam had given him, shook his head, rolled his eyes, and promised he'd be ready when the time came and, much to Reggie's chagrin, she had to admit that last night, when Sam had quizzed him closely on the details of his character, Dean had calmly rattled off the information point perfect.

It was _very_ irritating.

Sensing her displeasure, Dean had glanced up and grinned cockily.

"Experience." He'd told her.

This was hardly the first undercover job he'd ever done though, it was admittedly one of the riskiest.

Aside from the length, the longer you were under the greater the chance of discovery, there was also the fact that they didn't know who the Waga was. Now, short of casting major suspicion on himself, it would be unlikely the that Waga would be able to blatantly out them, but who knew what interesting little nothings he or the rest of the pack might whisper into important ears? Which was why their characters had to have such air-tight, official support. There was a lot of opportunity for error and _absolutely_ _no_ margin for mistakes.

There we so many thing things that could go wrong.

But all that aside, Reggie was worried about Dean.

When the sun went down, Dean went hunting.

Alone.

For the last two nights he had returned to the field where they'd had their first confrontation with the Weres and kept vigil over the body of Megan Prescott, the young woman the Waga had killed. Sam and Dean's police scanner had picked up the missing persons' bulletin last night after Megan's husband had reported her disappearance. At first Reggie had been appalled and insisted that they should call in an anonymous tip about the corpse, but Dean had maintained that it was likely the Weres would eventually return to retrieve the body since they hadn't left any of the others to be found, and that he might be able to learn something useful by tracking them.

It was, to Reggie's way of thinking, a bad plan. A very bad plan. What if Dean were discovered by the Weres? Three to one odds were a little steep, even for someone with Dean's ego. Especially when they were talking not only _multiple_ _Werewolves_, but multiple Werewolves with an intelligent and ruthless leader. Reggie could tell from the tight expression around Sam's eyes and the way he watched Dean leave each night, staring at the door long after his brother had disappeared through it, that he wasn't much happier about his stubbornness then she was but, a lifetime of experience gave him the same insight as her empathic ability, that there was no point in arguing with Dean about it. He was taking the incident with Megan and the Waga _very_ personally, and Reggie's involvement had only hardened his determination. Reggie would still have tried to talk to him but, they weren't really speaking at the moment.

The trouble had begun after what Dean had taken to calling their "Kiss and Cry Episode" on Friday morning when Reggie and the Winchesters had begun the business of preparing for their latest case. It should have been simple, it had certainly seemed so at the time. In fact, at first, Reggie had been surprised at how good it had felt, how cathartic, to simply get on with things. To focus on and execute a series of tasks and know that your efforts were moving you steadily towards stopping your enemy, was distracting for the brain and the promise of vengeance soothing for the heart, and so, she simply hadn't anticipated that she was standing on the brink of what would turn into yet another of the unmitigated disasters that plagued her relationship with Dean. The continual subtext and undiffused pressure that layered everything they did and said with deeper, and often unintentional, meaning had, and would continue, to obliterate any hope of normal interaction between them, and as it was, for her part, Reggie was more confused and conflicted than ever. After Bayard and then the priests' closet, and then the damn werewolves and the bar, what she and Dean knew about themselves and each other was in constant opposition to what they acknowledged they knew and felt, creating an almost intolerable dichotomy between appearance and reality that was becoming almost unbearable to maintain.

The first step towards catastrophe and the primary order of business for the morning, had been to change hotels. The conscientious Thorne brothers would never take their sister to a hole-in-the-wall like the Silver Springs, so the Winchesters were forced to upgrade.

The Mountain Pines Inn was tucked, much as its name implied, amidst a majestic stand of towering Northern Pines, on the West bank of the rushing Bighorn with the cerulean waters drawn up almost to its doorstep, somewhere in the wooded no-man's-land between the city and the State park. The Pines itself consisted of two buildings both made from honey-toned logs taken from the plentiful coniferous forest that surrounded it. The first, the "Big House", did look very much like a large and gracious house with its face to the river and wide, wraparound poaches with their homey, welcoming scatter of wooden chairs that invited you to come on in, put your feet up, and enjoy the breathtaking vistas of tawny plain, rolling green woods and towering mountains, bordered by the twin azure belts of river and sky. Indeed, the Big House was the home of owners Marta and Bartley Rogan and in addition, housed the Inn's restaurant, "The Cone", as well as other, heretofore unbeknownst, amenities like a pool and fitness room.

A path, lined with silvery sage and made from gravel that glittered with the varied, blue, green, red and black minerals that laced the local rock strata and gave the hot springs their many and mysterious facets, led away from the Big House and its neatly paved, tree-lined parking lot, following the river toward a second, larger structure. Each floor of this long, two-story building had eight parallel rooms with separate entrances. It was called, "The Doors", because each room had its own cheerful, cherry-red door. They marched across the front of the golden building in two even lines like sixteen smartly turned-out soldiers, opening either onto the wide terrace that swept in a dramatic curve along the entire length of the second floor, or onto the quaint path that continued from the Big House along the front of The Doors.

And that was only the beginning.

Reggie and the Winchesters had booked two adjoining rooms, one with two queens and the other a single king, and prepared to make themselves at home.

Their ground-floor room was much more spacious then Reggie had become accustomed to traveling with the Winchesters, and was not decorated in eye-smarting, migraine/vomit-inducing shades of neon or magenta, nor saddled with kitchy themes. Much to Dean's grumbling dismay, the colour scheme evoked the natural setting of the hotel with floors of warm, tawny wood and walls painted a soothing, muted green. Deep, inviting looking armchairs and the large table, as well as the rest of the furniture, were also done in earth tones or made of natural materials, completing the cozily rustic atmosphere. The small kitchenette was clean, modern and well equipped, and Reggie had actually smiled when she saw the large clawfoot bathtubs which graced the bathrooms. But, Sam and Dean hadn't really taken the time to appreciate the creature comforts their new accommodations afforded. In fact, if anything, the moderate luxury seemed to make them uneasy. All business, they immediately began to asses the new space.

Dumping his bags on the bed, Dean had strode over to the door which lead to the second room, flipped the lock and then disappeared outside. A moment later Reggie heard the matching lock on the other side of the door click and it swung open to reveal Dean.

"This is good." He'd said, nodding in approval.

"We can live in here" He indicated the room they were presently in,

"And use next door as a sort of staging area. That way we don't have to worry about people noticing salt lines or wards and stuff, if the neighbors come a'callin', and we can take some extra precautions."

The reminder of why they were here, in this lovely, graceful setting, to dupe and manipulate a grieving community and track down a pack of slavering monsters, quickly depressed Reggie's flagging spirits, which had risen an infinitesimal degree at the sight of the bathtub.

The afternoon had pretty much proceeded downhill from there.

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Sam wouldn't have said it had gone downhill, he'd have felt the metaphor was far to passive to accurately describe what had happened shortly after their arrival at The Pines. A more astute parallel would have been a freight elevator plunging from the fortieth floor of a high-rise straight to the basement. It was two days later and he could practically feel the icy weight of the stare Reggie had unerringly pinned on Dean where he sat at the table. It was a miracle that his brother's eyebrows hadn't started to collect frost. He didn't know how Dean managed to ignore it.

Of course, Sam thought with a flare of annoyance, the blame for the sorry state of affairs they currently found themselves in, rested squarely on Dean's shoulders.

It had begun almost immediately after they had completely their initial investigation of their new rooms.

Dean had taken what he had mistakenly decided was an opening provided by the discussion of using the room with the king-sized bed as a front to present to the outside world and the provision of "precautions", to broach the subject of the "new rules", he and Sam had discussed, with Reggie.

It hadn't gone well.

It had started out innocently enough, with Dean shuffling his feet before deliberately setting his jaw and looking up at Reggie where she stood in the bathroom door, her face still wreathed in smiles after the discovery of the giant bathtub.

"So, it's a good thing you like the place…" He'd begun with a lame, in Sam's opinion, attempt at humour.

"Oh?" Reggie had replied, crossing her arms over her chest, her grin fading as she sensed that she wasn't going to like what came next.

"Dean" Sam had tried to interject, putting as much warning into his tone as possible. Reggie was still exhausted and drained from the night before and this morning hadn't been much easier, Sam felt it would be prudent to wait to inform Reggie that they were effectively planning to put her under house arrest, until after they were all fed and a little better rested. Dean kind of ruined that plan though. He stopped when Sam interrupted him, but it was too late.

Reggie's eyes narrowed.

"What's going on? Dean? Sam?" Her head swiveled from one suddenly uncomfortable Winchester to the other.

"Sam" Dean said simply, throwing the ball into his brother's court but letting his tone clearly imply that he thought it was best to just get it over with.

"_Dean!_" Sam had replied in exasperation. Reggie was now directing her unnerving stare in his direction and he knew that there was no way she was going to let this go and, quite frankly, he wasn't really used to being on the receiving end of her displeasure and he couldn't say he cared much for the experience. It was throwing him off his stride.

Reggie's eyes became amber slits that glittered with a foreboding kind of speculation. Dean was looking resigned and tight-lipped again and Sam had his "reasonable", face on and his eyes were wide and limpid. He looked like he was about to launch into a pre-prepared speech. She waited tensely.

"Sam." Dean prompted.

"Dean." Sam gritted in protest.

"_Stop that!_" Reggie's voice rang out sharply.

"I _hate_ _it_ when you do that."

"Do what?" Said Sam, his brow wrinkling as he broke eye contact with Dean. .

"Pack an entire conversation into the repetition of each others names. It's like trying to decipher a wonky form of Morris Code. Something's going on and I want to know what. _Now._"

Sam winced at her tone and shot a beseeching look at Dean. In response, Dean crossed his arms and leaned back casually against the wall. Truth be told, he was tired of always having to play the bad guy with Reggie and was really rather enjoying watching Sam's face filter through guilt, discomfort and finally, panic, as he received the sharp edge of her tongue. He knew his pleasure in the role reversal was more than a little perverse, and that it couldn't last for long, but he wasn't quite ready to haul Sam out of the hole he was digging for himself just yet, it only meant he would have to jump in. Besides, if he didn't let Sam have a go at doing it _his way_, he'd only have to spend the rest of the night listening to his brother bitch about _he_ could have done it better. How there were, _alternatives_. Well, the truth was, no one liked being put in a cage. Especially not proud, courageous tigresses with sad golden eyes and wounded spirits. The fact that Dean perceived that he had _no choice_, abruptly quenched any amusement he had found in the situation and replaced it with fury. Fury and guilt. Reggie should be free, not tied down and hobbled by a risk that should never have been hers to take in the first place. But, like he'd said, no other choice.

"Look" Sam began, trying to placate Reggie,

"It's not some huge thing to get upset over….". He scooped hair out of his eyes agitatedly, belying his own statement.

"Who's upset?" Reggie demanded in a low, controlled voice, feeling irritation skidding along her abused nerves, fraying her temper far more quickly than usual.

"I'm not upset. _Should_ _I_ _be_?"

Sam swallowed, Reggie's anger was swift and unexpected and he….didn't really know what to do.

"Uh….no?" It sounded like a question because it had suddenly become one. Sam fumbled and tried to remember all of the really sound, logical reasons he and Dean had come up with for confining Reggie to the room. They didn't seem like very good armor in the face of her ire.

"Just--Stay calm. I haven't even said anything yet." Sam's hands were out in a universal gesture of neutrality.

"_I_. _Am_. _Calm_." Each word was punctuated by a pause that was the verbal equivalent of a falling sledgehammer.

_Oh Hell._ Sam thought resignedly. It should have been so simple, but the withering weight of Reggie's suspicious gaze made all his reasonable arguments go right out the window, and besides, now that she was expecting the worst, having come to that conclusion with Dean's not inconsiderable help, anything he said would _sound,_ like the worst. He gave it his best effort though.

"It's just that we were thinking…..I mean, we were going to _suggest_…" He faltered.

Dean pushed away from the wall. The glitter of emerald amusement in his green eyes, with which he'd observed the back and forth between Reggie and Sam, was ruthlessly extinguished as they hardened and his face settled into a grim and obstinate expression. The same one their father had always worn, Sam thought, when he was going to make you do something because he thought it was for your own good, and to hell with how you felt about it.

That was how he'd known it wasn't going to go well. From experience.

That look meant that the Winchester in question, be it his father, Dean, or yes, even Sam himself, had resigned himself to a fight. The problem was, when a Winchester prepared for a fight, he usually found it, because he didn't stop to consider other alternatives. Dean's opening statement pretty much confirmed that it was going to be one of _those_ conversations. The proprietary tone, the unyielding stance, feet braced shoulder-width apart, arms folded, and finally, the eyes, hard and direct, all screamed, _It's going to be my way and, if you don't like it, too bad._

"We _decided,_ that since we don't know who the Werewolves are, it's too dangerous for you to go anywhere by yourself, so you aren't allowed to leave the room unless you're with one of us and we say it's alright."

Sam groaned silently. Subtlety he'd said. Diplomacy. So much for finesse.

"You decided." Reggie had repeated carefully, her voice now soft but _infinitely_ more dangerous.

"I'm not _allowed….."_

Dean had refused to back down. There was no point in pussy-footing around it. It was their job to keep her safe and they were going to do it. Period. Dean accepted that, just as he accepted that there was nothing he could say that would make Reggie any less angry about it, nor himself any less impotently furious at the whole goddamn world for putting them in this situation. At himself for letting it come this far, letting her come this far into his nightmare world. And there was some part of him that wanted to punish himself for that. That felt he deserved her venom and the pain a breech with her would bring him. There was even a part of him that welcomed it as a respite from the unending torment of unfulfilled desire made all the more excruciating by their camaraderie, their unbearably _platonic_ closeness. It would be easier to resist yanking her into his arms and kissing away the frown that marred the full pink perfection of her mouth, if she were too angry to spend her days smiling at him and her nights wrapped in his arms.

"That's right."

Dean heard his own voice, hard, cold, and unyielding, as if from a great distance, and told himself that the spark of betrayal that flared briefly in Reggie's tawny eyes, before being consumed by flames of rage, didn't cut so deeply that he bled silent tears. He knew that he was the only person she'd ever really let see how much she hated to be controlled, how much she yearned to be free.

What had ensued was one of the most vicious rows Sam had ever seen, and he and Jess had had a few knock-down, drag-out fights in their time, to say nothing of the arguments he'd had with his father, but this…Reggie hadn't spoken to Dean since, with his face like a mask of stone, had told her that if she didn't listen, he'd tie her up. It wasn't the first time he'd made that threat and, like last time, Reggie had believed him, and had been stiffly obeying his edict in the kind of cold silence that had a physical bite to it, ever since, making her fury as inescapable as it was tangible.

Thinking back over the whole train wreck of a conversation, Sam was pretty sure it had had more to do with exhaustion and stress and Dean's inability to express concern like a normal human being, then the rules themselves. Caring made Dean feel vulnerable, that was a no-brainer for anyone who knew him, much less Sam, who knew him better than any living soul, and unfortunately, Dean tended to respond to that feeling of exposure and helplessness with belligerence and shows of strength, which went over like a ton of bricks with Reggie, and when his coping mechanism failed it just made Dean feel _more_ _vulnerable_, which made him _more _overbearing and stubborn…..and the whole thing just kind of-snowballed.

Unfortunately, understanding how what should have been a simple explanation of the reasonable motivations behind their concerns and the solutions they had come up with to keep everyone safe, had exploded into a firefight, didn't exactly help Sam to diffuse the aftermath. He'd figured Reggie would be better at it but, she didn't seem anymore inclined to attempt to patch the rift between her and Dean then Dean himself did. In fact, the two had continued to snipe at one another for most of the weekend.

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Sam's assessment of Dean's actions and motivations were, as was to be expected, pretty accurate, with the exception of the fact that Dean's reasoning had also included the basic fact that Reggie was likely to be angry about the new restrictions regardless of the mode of delivery, and that a good fight and a few days of fuming might be just the thing to help get her mind off the horror of the last forty-eight hours and, if she were feeling anything like Dean was, it would certainly give her an excellent outlet for the prowling aggression and pent-up, helpless frustration that was eating at his gut like acid and, he was willing to bet, hers. Under the circumstances, and since it was his fault she was here in the first place, offering himself as a target on which to vent her feelings seemed the least he could do.

For the most part Dean had been right. Being angry at him had helped Reggie to focus her energy and keep her thoughts from straying to the recent past. From hearing screams in the silent corners of her mind and seeing eyes like burning coals behind her closed eyes. From remembering what it was like to feel the tug of teeth embedded in her skin. All of which, she would try to remind herself, counted as dwelling and was counter-productive. And then Dean would do or say something that made her see a whole different shade of red and she'd get well and truly distracted thinking up new and inventive ways to tell him to go to hell.

The whole system had worked pretty well until Sunday morning, when concern for Dean had finally begun to intrude on Reggie's ability to maintain her steadfast, comforting, and somewhat deliberately oblivious, cocoon of righteous fury. But all of her more subtle overtures of peace had been rebuffed and _that_, had gotten her ire up again. When they'd awakened that morning she'd actually offered a 'Good morning', which would count as the first civil words exchanged between them in two days, and what had he done? Had he responded in kind? Had he smiled? Had he even nodded in acknowledgement of her olive branch? Oh No! He'd yawned and stolen her pillow!

"What year were you born?"

Sam's question yanked Reggie from her seething.

"January 17,1990." She replied automatically, the number now burned into her brain.

"And when was I born?"

"April 2, 1987."

"And when wa-"

"August 5, 1983" Reggie answered before he could finish.

Sam paused to give her a quelling look over the top of his computer before continuing with the quiz that had become a bi-hourly routine.

"What were your parents names?

"Ethel and Claude Thorne." Reggie made a face.

"What did your father do?"

"He was corporate lawyer, traveled a lot. He was my mother's second husband. My mother was a socialite from Virginia and she became a sort of "Dear Abbey" for our local newspaper. Real social butterfly. They weren't bad parents but they weren't around much."

"Where did you grow up?"

"Cumberland, in West Mayrland."

"In what neighborhood?"

"Decatur Heights in the West End, near Constitution Park and Fort Hill. We had money." She stated matter-of-factly.

Sam nodded approval.

"Where did you go to school?"

"Fort Hills High School at 500 Greenway Ave., est. 1936. Go Sentinels." Reggie gave a lackluster arm-pump and abruptly broke the pattern of question and answer as her nerves made themselves felt, the bottom of her stomach seeming to suddenly drop and spiral away.

"Oh God. Fort Hills _High._ I have to convince people that I'm in _high school_ again! I wasn't even any good at high school when I _really_ _was_ a teenager." She cried.

"I mean, they're not going to buy it. Can you even do this? Just, drop in at a school out of the middle of nowhere and say 'Hi there, my family's just been struck by tragedy and I'd like to enroll?!"

Sam nodded.

"Our Dad did it with us all the time."

There was a dry undercurrent in his voice that had Dean glancing up from his books to give his brother a hard look before turning to Reggie.

"Relax." He suggested in a tone of patronizing indifference.

"All you have to do sit around, giggle about Billy the Jock, listen to crappy pop music, bemoan your fate as a privileged child of upper-middle class suburbia, and indulge in the occasional over-dramatic display of emotion. Piece of cake."

Reggie's response was to groan, cover her face with her hands, and allow herself to fall face-first onto the bed.

"I can't do this!" She moaned.

"See" said Dean with grating cheerfulness,

"You're getting the hang of it already."

Giving Dean a look that would have peeled paint, Reggie bounced off the bed and stomped into the bathroom, pretty much the only place she could get any privacy under the dictates of the new Fascist Regime, and not caring in the least that her petulant actions only drove home Dean's barb, as she shut the door with a hearty _slam_.

God, she _hated this._ The constant bickering and the worrying, it was chewing on her last nerve.

Well, no.

Actually, that was Dean doing his best impression of a terrier attached to a pant leg and Sam with his obsessing and the endless drilling of information into her skull. Yanking off her clothes Reggie took deep breaths and told herself that a nice warm bath would help to ease her pounding headache and the tightness in her back and neck. And more importantly, the sizzling tension of irritation building in her chest and the increasingly persistent sensation of suffocation that looking at the same four walls for the last two days and _knowing_, that she couldn't leave--not unless, of course, she _asked_ Dean if she could and she _be_ _damned _if she was going to do that_!_-- had bred.

Lifting her leg high to step over the edge of the enormous, free-standing tub, Reggie reached for the bronze knob marked H. Sighing deeply, she adjusted the temperature of the water and attempted to clear her mind of turbulence and discord by focusing on the river of clear liquid running from the slender, burnished spout that arched gracefully over the lip of the tub, to splash onto the white porcelain below and scatter crystal droplets.

It didn't work.

She tried counting to ten, and then twenty. Then thirty. Then a hundred. Then she shrugged and reached for the portable radio sitting on the nearby counter. Flipping it on, she twisted the dial until she found what she was looking for. A diabolical smile spread across her face as the sound of the Spice Girls' _Two_ _Become_ _One,_ filled the room. Leaning back against the gently sloping rear wall of the bath, Reggie felt the ball of impotent frustration sitting heavily below her heart begin to ease as the unmistakable sensation of Dean's temper fraying became apparent as soon as the first notes of bubble-gum, girly pop assailed his ears. Still wearing her satanic grin and imagining the way the muscle in his jaw would be beginning to work as the Spice Girls gave way to Brittney Spears, Reggie sighed a reflected that, what meditation and calm rationale wouldn't cure, a little sweet revenge, would. _Especially_ if one were feeling _juvenile,_ about it_._

Reggie soaked in the tub until her skin was saturated with water and her senses with the satisfying weight of Dean's increasing distress. When she felt that she could practically reach out and pluck the tension in him like a tightly tuned guitar string, she relented and, pulling on her yoga pants and t-shirt, tossed open the bathroom door, emerging from the small room in a billow of steam. She tried to smother a laugh as Dean shot past her, his hand crashing down on the small radio, silencing Cindy Lauper's cheerful bellowing about how girls just wanna have fun and ending his harmonic agony. Turning towards her, his face twisted by a dark glower, Reggie was delighted to see that a hour of "Girl music" had done what forty-eight hours of feuding with her could not. It had eroded Dean's iron-clad self-control, and with it, had gone the cool, superior sense of indifference..

"Goddamnit woman!" He snarled,

"That shit is enough to destroy my _will_ _to live!"_

Reggie just grinned and flicked her fingers, and the few remaining droplets of water that clung to them, at him.

"Now who's being dramatic?" She asked archly with a mocking lift of her brows.

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"You're a real natural at this bratty, teeny-bopper stuff." He snapped, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Always so fucking superior." He growled low, turning his back on her.

And that had been it, the proverbial last straw. Reggie felt her suddenly tenuous hold on her self-control strain under this new condescension and insult and then—snap!

Snarling under her breath, pushed to the limit of her endurance by the unrelenting stress, Reggie succumbed to her instinctive impulse and before she'd even realized what she intended, dove for Dean's back.

Of course, she never even got close to him. Anger made her reckless and uncoordinated and, as surprised as he was by her attack, Dean dodged quickly to one side, catching Reggie's weight on his arm as he turned to face her, tumbling her back onto the bed and just as swiftly pinning her there, his right hand easily encircling both her wrists and securing them above her head while his left leg fell heavily over the lower half of her body, stilling any attempt at movement.

Neither her sudden and complete capture, nor her failure to inflict any of the bodily damage she was still describing in great detail, slowed her tirade in the least. Nose to nose with Dean on the bed, Reggie proceeded to blister his ears with an impressive array of curses in several languages, only a few of which he recognized and more than a few of which he was grateful he didn't, given the universally comprehensible tone of vicious contempt in which they were delivered.

And through it all, Dean tired not to show his exaltation.

He had Reggie completely at his mercy. Never in the entirety of their relationship had his physical superiority been more apparent. She was utterly immobilized beneath him, totally subject to his greater strength, her own weakness thrown into blatant relief by the obvious power of his body as he loomed over her, effortlessly imprisoning her limbs with his own and_ She. Didn't. Care_.

As far as he could tell, she hadn't even noticed. She was still too busy giving him the set-down of his life, and damned if he wasn't enjoying every minute of it.

As angry as she was with him, as unbridled as their fight had been, she wasn't afraid of him. Dean could remember when the mere suggestion of the faintest physical contact between them had made her quail. He couldn't stifle the wave of triumph that washed through him at what he could only consider yet another proof of Reggie's growing trust in him. Proof that he hadn't damaged it beyond repair two days ago when he'd made himself her jailer, too afraid and too stubborn to ask for her understanding where he felt for the thousandth time that he didn't deserve it, and feared for the first time, that he might not get it. But it wasn't too late.

Lying beneath Dean, being slowly crushed into the mattress by his weight, her breath and her list of blasphemies running out, Reggie finally began to wind down, and notice that Dean was grinning like a fool.

"You're worse than the most unfortunate son of a pig and an ass…….And what the hell are you smiling about Winchester?!" She railed, glaring at him.

Dean couldn't stop himself from grinning even wider as he looked down at her.

"Nothing." And then,

"You're awfully pretty when you're angry."

Reggie huffed, startled out of her attempt to re-group her flagging indignance.

"Flattery will get you nowhere." She responded automatically but, because it had taken her by surprise, as had his blinding smile and sincerity, she hesitated to start screaming at him again. And besides, her throat hurt. To get some distance and give herself a little time to adjust to the sudden change of gears, as far as she could tell Dean had done nothing but deliberately provoke her for the last two days, she settled for a curt,

"You're crushing me."

The sinuous movement of her body under his as she tried to ease into a more comfortable position served to remind Dean vividly that as delicate as her form might seem in comparison to his, there was strength there too. He could feel the sleek shift and supple stretch of muscle beneath the warm curves of her body as she fidgeted beneath him, a core of surprising and purely feminine strength that called deeply to his senses on a primitive level. Taking a deep, hidden breath, his smile fading, Dean sharply counseled himself not to start down that road.

Instead, he obligingly rolled to one side, taking his weight from her, but he didn't go far. He stayed lying close along her side, his hand still braceleting her wrists, in case she tried to escape before he'd had the chance to say what he needed to, and tried to ignore the fact that in his current position, the swell of her breasts pressed lightly against his arm with her every breath. Better to just do what he needed to do and get it over with, no need to go looking for any additional complications.

"I'm sorry."

Reggie was appalled at how much those two simple words from his lips made her want to cry. And worse, to forgive everything. But she couldn't, not quite.

"How could you do that to me?" She whispered.

"I…..I had to." It was a sorry excuse, but the best one he had.

"I had to protect you."

The words were ragged and, even if Reggie hadn't gotten a glimpse of his guilt-ravaged expression, she would have felt the slice of it inside him.

"It's the only way. We aren't going to be able to be with you every second. You should be safe when you're at school but, every instant you're out of my sight……" Dean's eyes closed as if he could block out the horrifying spectre of what might be. He couldn't explain the agony the thought of Reggie becoming another casualty in the war he'd unwittingly and inescapably, inherited from his father, brought him. But she knew.

"It's all right" Reggie soothed, no longer caring about the angry words and the hurts that had been inflicted in the previous days, wanting only to ease the suffering inside him. Recognizing in a painful instant that it was all a manifestation of his concern, the way he could show he cared.

"I won't go out alone, without you. I promise. I'll be good. I'll follow all the rules."

The long fingers that held her wrists captive tightened convulsively for an instant and then gentled, transforming their restraining pressure into an almost-caress.

"It's _not_ about controlling you." He was desperate to make her understand.

"It's that I _can't control them!_ I don't know what they'll do, I can't predict….. " He trailed off in frustration.

"All I know is I can't have your blood on my hands. I just _can't!_"

Dean's anguish wrenched Reggie's heart and overrode the sharp lance of fear that his words, a blatant reminder of her own very real and very serious, peril, sent spiking through her. Instead she felt again inside Dean the maelstrom of conflicting needs, duty versus desire, that she had begun to characterize as the roaring of the caged lion, the chained bear, her beautiful, wild, _trapped_ wolf. He was caught in a snare woven from the very fabric of who he was tangled with what he wanted to be. And what he didn't. And no matter how furious she had been, how frustrated she was, Reggie could not bring herself to make this battle harder for him. So she would lay down her arms. She smiled wryly at him.

"I hate it when you do that."

"What?" He asked tiredly, obviously expecting a criticism but too downtrodden and guilty to do more then accept whatever missile she aimed his way..

"Be reasonable…..And use my own feelings against me."

Dean's head came up and a tentative smile kicked up the corner of his mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he felt her body relax, felt her acceptance of his presence and his apology.

"I learned from the best."

"Bite me" Reggie suggested, and stuck out her tongue at him.

Dean felt his teasing smile fade as Reggie's small, pink tongue slid provocatively between her lips. His eyes darkened and his heart rate doubled between one breath and the next. Lying so close next to him, Reggie felt the sudden tension in his body, saw passion tighten his jaw.

"Don't. Do. That." The low, gritty quality of his voice made her shudder with sudden awareness.

Taking a slow breath, Reggie nodded and pulled back her lips in an exaggerated grimace and snapped her jaws together, obediently keeping her tongue tucked carefully out of sight, showing him her small, even white teeth instead, wordlessly echoing her earlier sentiment.

To her intense relief Dean's face stretched back into a smile and the tension between them dissolved as he finally released her hands and flopped over onto his back next to her, the mattress trembling beneath her with the force of his laughter.

When Sam opened the door he was greeted by the unexpected sight of Reggie and Dean stretched out side by side on their bed, her husky laughter mixing with his deep chuckle.

"Uh, hey." He greeted them warily, stepping into the room and closing the door behind them.

"Truce?" He guessed. They nodded in tandem.

"Great. Does that mean we can finally go over our cover story as a group?"

Expecting his brother's response, Sam agilely ducked the pillow Dean lobbed at him but, Reggie's caught him square in the mouth as he straightened.

"Mmmpf." He raised surprised eyes to two faces that fought to stay straight.

"I take it that's a no?"

This time Sam's laughter joined theirs.

And there it was, Reggie thought quietly to herself, as easy as that. Balance restored, grievances aired, root issues safely bypassed or ignored and crisis averted, at least until tomorrow morning.

But then, she mused with a wry twist of her mouth, wasn't that what family was all about?


End file.
